THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  DUNE  COUNTRY 


91 


VHF  VOICES  OF  VHF  DUNES 

QOMCttl  MBS  So  v   \  . 


ETCHING: 
nt  QoMtra       Cum        ;   -    N 


THE 
DUNE  COUNTRY 


By 

EARL  H.  REED 


AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  VOICES  OF  THE  DUNES" 

ETCHING:    A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE' 


WITH  SIXTY  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

TORONTO:  S.  B.  GUNDY,  MCMXVI 


Copyright.  1916 
By  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


PRESS  OF 

Eaton  &  Gettinoer 
new  york,  v.  s.  a. 


f 


To  C.  C.  R. 


\ 


3060942 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  text  and  illustrations  in  this  book  are 
intended  to  depict  a  strange  and  pictur- 
esque country,  with  some  of  its  interesting 
wild  life,  and  a  few  of  the  unique  human  char- 
acters that  inhabit  it. 

The  big  ranges  of  sand  dunes  that  skirt  the 
southern  and  eastern  shores  of  Lake  Michigan, 
and  the  strip  of  sparsely  settled  broken  country 
back  of  them,  contain  a  rich  fund  of  material  for 
the  artist,  poet,  and  nature  lover,  as  well  as  for 
those  who  would  seek  out  the  oddities  of  human 
kind  in  by-paths  remote  from  much  travelled 
highways. 

In  the  following  pages  are  some  of  the  results 
of  numerous  sketching  trips  into  this  region,  cov- 
ering a  series  of  years.  Much  material  was 
found  that  was  beyond  the  reach  of  the  etching 
needle  or  the  lead  pencil,  but  many  things  seemed 
to  come  particularly  within  the  province  of  those 
mediums,  and  they  have  both  been  freelv  used. 

While  many  interesting  volumes  could  be  filled 
by  pencil  and  pen,  this  story  of  the  dunes  and  the 
"back  country'1  has  been  condensed  as  much  as 
seems  consistent  with  the  portrayal  of  their  essen- 
tial characteristics. 


We  are  lured  into  the  wilds  by  a  natural  in- 
stinct. Contact  with  nature's  forms  and  moods 
is  a  necessary  stimulant  to  our  spiritual  and  intel- 
lectual life.  The  untrammelled  mind  may  find 
inspiration  and  growth  in  congenial  isolation,  for 
in  it  there  are  no  competitive  or  antagonistic  in- 
fluences to  divert  or  destroy  its  fruitage. 

Comparatively  isolated  human  types  are  usually 
more  interesting,  for  the  reason  that  individual 
development  and  natural  ruggedness  have  not  been 
rounded  and  polished  by  social  attrition. 

Social  attrition  would  have  ruined  "old  Sipes," 
a  part  of  whose  story  is  in  this  book,  and  if  it 
had  ever  been  mentioned  to  him  he  probably 
would  have  thought  that  it  was  something  that 
lived  up  in  the  woods  that  he  had  never  seen. 

Fictitious  names  have,  for  various  reasons,  been 
substituted  for  some  of  the  characters  in  the  fol- 
lowing chapters.  One  of  the  old  derelicts  objected 
strenuously  to  the  use  of  his  name.  "I  don't  want 
to  be  in  no  book,"  said  he.  "You  can  draw  all 
the  pitchers  o'  me  you  want  to,  an'  use  'em,  but 
as  fer  names,  there's  nothin'  doin'." 

"Old  Sipes"  suggested  that  if  "Doc  Looney's 
pitcher  was  put  in  a  book,  some  o'  them  females 
might  see  it  an'  locate  'im,"  but  as  the  "Doc"  has 
now  disappeared  this  danger  is  probably  remote. 

E.  H.  R. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Dune   Country 15 


II.     The  Gulls  and  Terns 39 

III.  The   Turtles 47 

IV.  The  Crows 55 

V.     "Old  Sipes" 73 

VI.     "Happy  Cal" 97 

VII.     "Catfish   John" 115 

VIII.     "Doc  Looney" 149 

IX.     The  Mysterious  Prowler 169 

X.     "J.  Ledyard  Symington" 179 

XI.     The  Back  Country 193 

XII.     Judge  Cassius  Blossom 229 

XIII.  The  Winding  River 255 

XIV.  The   Red   Arrow 279 


THE  DUNE  COUNTRY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

WHILE  there  are  immense  stretches  of 
sand  dunes  in  other  parts  of  the  world, 
it  is  of  a  particular  dune  country,  to 
which  many  journeys  have  been  made,  and  in 
which  many  days  have  been  spent,  that  this  story 
will  be  told. 

The  dunes  sweep  for  many  miles  along  the 
Lake  Michigan  coasts.  They  are  post-glacial, 
and  are  undergoing  slow  continual  changes,  both 
in  form  and  place, — the  loose  sand  responding 
lightly  to  the  action  of  varying  winds. 

[15] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  "fixed  dunes"  retain  general  forms,  more 
or  less  stable,  owing  to  the  scraggly  and  irregular 
vegetation  that  has  obtained  a  foothold  upon  them, 
but  the  "wandering  dunes"  move  constantly.  The 
fine  sand  is  wafted  in  shimmering  veils  across  the 
smooth  expanses,  over  the  ridges  to  the  lee  slopes. 
It  swirls  in  soft  clouds  from  the  wind-swept  sum- 
mits, and,  in  the  course  of  time,  whole  forests  are 
engulfed.  After  years  of  entombment,  the  dead 
trunks  and  branches  occasionally  reappear  in  the 
path  of  the  destroyer,  and  bend  back  with  gnarled 
arms  in  self-defence,  seeming  to  challenge  their 
flinty  foe  to  further  conflict. 

The  general  movement  is  east  and  southeast, 
owing  to  the  prevalence  of  west  and  northwest 
winds  in  this  region,  which  gather  force  in  com- 
ing over  the  waters  of  the  lake.  The  finer  grains, 
which  are  washed  up  on  the  beach,  are  carried 
inland,  the  coarser  particles  remaining  near  the 
shore.  The  off-shore  winds,  being  broken  by  the 
topography  of  the  country,  exercise  a  less  but  still 
noticeable  influence.  The  loose  masses  retreat  per- 
ceptibly toward  the  beach  when  these  winds  pre- 
vail for  any  great  length  of  time. 

[16] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

To  many  this  region  simply  means  a  distant  line 
of  sandy  crests,  tree-flecked  and  ragged,  against 
the  sky  on  the  horizon — a  mysterious  and  unknown 
waste,  without  commercial  value,  and  therefore 
useless  from  a  utilitarian  standpoint. 

It  is  not  the  land,  but  the  landscape,  not  the  util- 
ity, but  the  romantic  and  interesting  wild  life 
among  these  yellow  ranges  that  is  of  value.  It  is 
the  picturesque  and  poetic  quality  that  we  find  in 
this  land  of  enchantment  that  appeals  to  us,  and 
it  is  because  of  this  love  in  our  lives  that  we  now 
enter  this  strange  country. 

The  landscapes  among  the  dunes  are  not  for  the 
realist,  not  for  the  cold  and  discriminating  record- 
er of  facts,  nor  the  materialist  who  would  weigh 
with  exact  scales  or  look  with  scientific  eyes.  It 
is  a  country  for  the  dreamer  and  the  poet,  who 
would  cherish  its  secrets,  open  enchanted  locks, 
and  explore  hidden  vistas,  which  the  Spirit  of  the 
Dunes  has  kept  for  those  who  understand. 

The  winds  have  here  fashioned  wondrous  forms 
with  the  shuttles  of  the  air  and  the  mutable  sands. 
Shadowy  fortresses  have  been  reared  and  bannered 
with  the  pines.     Illusive  distant  towers  are  tinged 

[17] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

by  the  subtle  hues  of  the  afterglows,  as  the  twilights 
softly  blend  them  into  the  glooms.  In  the  fading 
light  we  may  fancy  the  outlines  of  frowning  castles 
and  weird  battlements,  with  ghostly  figures  along 
their  heights. 

If  the  desert  was  of  concrete,  its  mystery  and 
spiritual  power  would  not  exist.  The  deadly  si- 
lences which  nature  leaves  among  her  ruins  are 
appalling,  unless  brightened  by  her  voices  of  en- 
during hope.  It  is  then  that  our  spirits  revive 
with  her. 

There  is  an  unutterable  gloom  in  the  hush  of 
the  rocky  immensities,  where,  in  dim  ages  past, 
the  waters  have  slowly  worn  away  the  stony  bar- 
riers of  the  great  canyons  among  the  mountains. 
The  countless  centuries  seem  to  hang  over  them 
like  a  pall,  when  no  living  green  comes  forth 
among  the  stones  to  nourish  the  soul  with  faith 
in  life  to  come.  We  walk  in  these  profound  soli- 
tudes with  an  irresistible  sense  of  spiritual  de- 
pression. 

On  Nature's  great  palette  green  is  the  color  of 
hope.  We  see  it  in  the  leaves  when  the  miracle 
of  the  spring  unfolds  them,   and  on  the  ocean's 

[18] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

troubled  waters  when  the  sun  comes  from  behind 
the  curtains  of  the  sky.  Even  the  tiny  mosses 
cover  with  their  mantles  the  emblems  of  despair 
when  decay  begins  its  subtle  work  on  the  fallen 
tree  and  broken  stump. 

We  find  in  the  dune  country  whatever  we  take 
to  it.  The  repose  of  the  yellow  hills,  which  have 
been  sculptured  by  the  winds  and  the  years,  re- 
flects the  solemnity  of  our  minds,  and  eternal  hope 
is  sustained  by  the  expectant  life  that  creeps  from 
every  fertile  crevice. 

While  the  wandering  masses  are  fascinating,  it 
is  among  the  more  permanent  forms,  where  na- 
ture has  laid  her  restraining  hand,  that  we  find  the 
most  picturesque  material.  It  is  here  that  the 
reconstructive  processes  have  begun  which  impart 
life  to  the  waste  places.  At  first,  among  these 
wastes,  one  is  likely  to  have  a  sense  of  loneliness. 
The  long,  undulating  lines  of  ridged  sand  inspire 
thoughts  of  hopeless  melancholy.  The  sparse  veg- 
etation, which  in  its  struggle  for  life  pathetically 
seizes  and  holds  the  partially  fertile  spots  among 
these  ever-shifting  masses,  has  the  appearance  of 
broken  submission.     The  wildly  tangled   roots — 

[19] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

derelicts  of  the  sands — which  have  been  deserted 
and  left  to  bleach  in  the  sun  by  the  slow  move- 
ment of  the  great  hills,  emphasize  the  feeling  of 


DERELICTS  OF  THE  SAXDS  " 


isolation.  The  changing  winds  may  again  give 
them  a  winding  sheet,  but  as  a  part  of  nature's 
refuse,  they  are  slowly  and  steadily  being  resolved 
back  into  her  crucible. 

To  the  colorist  the  dunes  present  ever-changing 
panoramas  of  hue  and  tone.  Every  cloud  that 
trails  its  purple,  phantom-like  shadow  across  them 

[20] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

can  call  forth  the  resources  of  his  palette,  and  he 
can  find  inspiration  in  the  high  nooks  where  the 
pines  cling  to  their  perilous  anchorage. 

The  etcher  may  revel  in  their  wealth  of  line. 
The  harmonic  undulations  of  the  long,  serrated 
crests,  with  sharp  accents  of  gnarled  roots  and 
stunted  trees,  offer  infinite  possibilities  in  compo- 
sition. To  the  imaginative  enthusiast,  seeking  po- 
etic forms  of  line  expression,  these  dwarfed,  neg- 
lected, crippled,  and  wasted  things  become  subtle 
units  in  artistic  arrangement. 

As  in  all  landscape,  we  find  much  material  in 
these  subjects  that  is  entirely  useless  from  an  ar- 
tistic standpoint.  The  thoughtful  translator  must 
be  rigidly  selective,  and  his  work  must  go  to  other 
minds,  to  which  he  appeals,  stripped  of  dross  and 
unencumbered  with  superfluities.  An  ugly  and 
ill-arranged  mass  of  light  and  shade,  that  may 
disfigure  the  foreground,  may  be  eliminated  from 
the  composition,  but  the  graceful  and  slender  weed 
growing  near  it  may  be  used.  A  low,  dark  cloud 
in  the  distance  may  be  carried  a  little  farther  away, 
if  necessary,  or  it  may  be  blown  entirely  away,  if 
another  cloud — floating  only  in  the  realm  of  im- 

[21] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

agination — will  furnish  the  desired  note  of  har- 
mony. Truth  need  not  necessarily  be  fact,  but  we 
must  not  include  in  our  composition  that  which  is 
not  possible  or  natural  to  our  subject.  Represen- 
tation of   fact  is  not  art,   in   its  pure  sense,   but 


IN  THE  WILD  PLACES 


effective  expression  of  thought,  which  fact  may 
inspire,  is  art — and  there  is  but  one  art,  although 
there  are  many  mediums. 

One  must  feel  the  spirit  and  poetry  of  the  dunes, 
if  he  deals  with  them  as  an  artist  who  would  send 

[22] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

their  story  into  the  world.  The  magic  of  success- 
ful artistic  translation  changes  the  sense  of  deso- 
lation into  an  impression  of  wild,  weird  beauty  and 
romantic  charm.  It  is  the  wildness,  the  mystery, 
the  deep  solemnity,  and  the  infinite  grandeur  of 
this  region  which  furnish  themes  of  appealing 
picturesqueness. 

Man  has  changed  or  destroyed  natural  scenery 
wherever  he  has  come  into  practical  contact  with 
it.  The  fact  that  these  wonderful  hills  are  left 
to  us  is  simply  because  he  has  not  yet  been  able 
to  carry  away  and  use  the  sand  of  which  they  are 
composed.  He  has  dragged  the  pines  from  their 
storm-scarred  tops,  and  is  utilizing  their  sands  for 
the  elevation  of  city  railway  tracks.  Shrieking, 
rasping  wheels  now  pass  over  them,  instead  of  the 
crow's  shadow,  the  cry  of  the  tern,  or  the  echo  of 
waves  from  glistening  and  untrampled  shores. 

The  turmoil  and  bustle  of  the  outside  world  is 
not  heard  on  the  placid  stretches  of  these  quiet 
undulations.  Here  the  weary  spirit  finds  repose 
among  elemental  forms  which  the  ravages  of  civil- 
ization have  left  unspoiled.  If  we  take  beautiful 
minds  and  beautiful  hearts  into  the  dune  country, 

r  23  ] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

we  will  find  only  beauty  in  it;  and  if  we  have  not 
the  love  of  beauty,  we  walk  in  darkness. 

Filmy  veils  of  white  mist  gather  in  the  hollows 
during  the  still,  cool  hours  of  the  night,  and  begin 
to  move  like  curling  smoke  wreaths  with  the  first 
faint  breaths  of  dawn.  The  early  hours  of  the 
morning  are  full  of  strange  enchantment,  and 
dawn  on  the  dunes  brings  many  wonders.  When 
the  first  gray  tones  of  light  appear,  the  night- 
prowlers  seek  seclusion,  and  the  stillness  is  broken 
by  the  crows.  A  single  note  is  heard  from  among 
the  boughs  of  a  far-off  pine,  and  in  a  few  moments 
the  air  is  filled  with  the  noisy  conversation  of  these 
interesting  birds — mingled  with  the  cries  of  the 
gulls  and  terns,  which  have  come  in  from  the  lake 
and  are  searching  for  the  refuse  of  the  night 
waves.  The  beams  of  a  great  light  burst  through 
the  trees — the  leaves  and  the  sands  are  touched 
with  gold — and  the  awakening  of  the  hills  has 
come. 

The  twilights  bring  forth  manifold  beauties 
which  the  bright  glare  of  the  day  has  kept  within 
their  hiding-places.  The  rich  purples  that  have 
been  concealed  among  secret  recesses  creep  out  on 

[24] 


(From  the  Author's  Etching) 


DAWN    IN   THE   HILLS 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

the  open  spaces  to  meet  the  silvery  light  of  the 
rising  moon,  and  the  colors  of  the  dusk  come  to 
weave  a  web  of  phantasy  over  the  landscape. 
It  is  then  that  the  movement  of  nocturnal  life 


{From  the  A  ulhor's  Etching) 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  DUNES 

commences  and  the  tragedies  of  the  night  begin. 
A  fleeting  silhouette  of  a  wing  intersects  the  moon's 
disc,  and  a  dark  shadowy  thing  moves  swiftly 
across    the    sky-line    of    the    trees.     An    attentive 

[26] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

listener  will  hear  many  strange  and  mysterious 
sounds.  The  Dune  People  are  coming  forth  to 
seek  their  food  from  God. 

When  the  morning  comes,  if  the  air  is  still,  we 


'A  FLEETING  SILHOUETTE  OF  A  WING 
INTERSECTS  THE  MOON'S  DISC" 


can  find  the  stories  on  the  sand.  Its  surface  is 
interlaced  with  thousands  of  little  tracks  and  trails, 
leading  in  all  directions.  The  tracks  of  the  toads, 
and  the  hundreds  of  creeping  insects  on  which 

T  27  ] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

they  subsist,  are  all  over  the  open  places,  crossed 
and  recrossed  many  times  by  the  footmarks  of 
crows,  herons,  gulls,  sandpipers,  and  other  birds. 

The  movement  of  the  four-footed  life  is  mostly 
nocturnal.  We  find  the  imprints  of  the  fox,  rac- 
coon, mink,  muskrat,  skunk,  white-footed  mouse, 
and  other  quadrupeds,  that  have  been  active  dur- 
ing the  night.  To  the  practiced  eye  these  trails 
are  readily  distinguishable,  and  often  traces  are 
found  of  a  tragedy  that  has  been  enacted  in  the 
darkness.  Some  confused  marks,  and  a  mussy- 
looking  spot  on  the  sand,  record  a  brief  struggle 
for  existence,  and  perhaps  a  few  mangled  remains, 
with  some  scattered  feathers  or  bits  of  fur,  are 
left  to  tell  the  tale.  A  weak  life  has  gone  out  to 
support  a  stronger. 

With  the  exception  of  the  insects,  the  mice  are 
the  most  frequent  victims.  Their  hiding-places 
under  tufts  of  grass,  old  stumps  and  decayed  wood 
are  ruthlessly  sought  out  and  the  little  families 
eagerly  devoured.  The  owls  glide  silently  over 
the  wastes,  searching  the  deep  shadows  for  the 
small,  velvet-footed  creatures  whose  helplessness 

[28] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

renders  them  easy  prey.  They  are  subject  to  im- 
mutable law  and  must  perish. 

Much  of  the  mysterious  lure  of  the  dunes  is  in 
the  magnificent  sweep  of  the  great  lake  along  the 
wild  shores.  Its  restless  waters  are  the  comple- 
ment of  the  indolent  sands.  The  distant  bands  of 
deep  blue  and  green,  dappled  with  dancing  white- 
caps,  in  the  vistas  through  the  openings,  impart 
vivid  color  accents  to  the  grays  and  neutral  tones 
of  the  foregrounds. 

No  great  mind  has  ever  flowered  to  its  fullness 
that  was  insensible  to  the  allurements  of  a  large 
body  of  water.  It  may  be  likened  to  a  human 
soul.  It  is  now  tempestuous,  and  now  placid. 
Beneath  its  surface  are  unknown  caverns  and 
unsounded  depths  into  which  light  never  goes.  If 
by  chance  some  piercing  ray  should  ever  reach 
them,  wondrous  beauty  might  be  revealed. 

The  waters  of  the  lake  are  never  perfectly  still. 
In  calms  that  seem  absolute,  a  careful  eye  will 
find  at  least  a  slight  undulation. 

On  quiet  days  the  little  waves  ripple  and  lisp 
along  the  miles  of  wet  sand,  and  the  delicate  streaks 
of  oscillating  foam  creep  away  in  a  feathery  and 

[29] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

uncertain  line,  that  fades  and  steals  around  a  dis- 
tant curve  in  the  shore. 

After  the  storms  the  long  ground-swells  roll  in 
for   days,   beating   their   rhythmic   measures,    and 


(From  Ike  Author's  Etching) 


THE   SONG   OF  THE  EAST  SHORE 


unfolding  their  snowy  veils  before  them  as  they 
come. 

The  echoes  of  the  roar  of  the  surf  among  the 
distant  dunes  pervade  them  with  solemn  sound. 
An  indefinable  spirit  of  mute  resistance  and  power 

[30] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

broods  in  the  inert  masses.  They  seem  to  be  hold- 
ing back  mighty  and  remote  forces  that  beat  upon 
their  barriers. 

The  color  fairies  play  out  on  the  bosom  of  the 
lake  in  the  silver  radiance  of  the  moon  and  stars, 
and  marvelous  tones  are  spread  upon  it  by  the 
sun  and  clouds.  Invisible  brushes,  charged  with 
celestial  pigments,  seem  to  sweep  over  its  great 
expanse,  mingling  prismatic  hues  and  changing 
them  fitfully,  in  wayward  fancy,  as  a  master  might 
delight  to  play  with  a  medium  that  he  had  con- 
quered. Fugitive  cloud  shadows  move  swiftly  over 
areas  of  turquoise  and  amethyst.  Fleeting  irides- 
cent hues  revel  with  the  capricious  breezes  in  lov- 
ing companionship. 

When  the  storm  gods  lash  the  lake  with  whis- 
tling winds,  and  send  their  sullen  dark  array 
through  the  skies,  and  the  music  of  the  tempest 
blends  with  song  of  the  surges  on  the  shore,  the 
color  tones  seem  to  become  vocal  and  to  mingle 
their  cadences  with  the  voices  of  the  gale. 

We  may  look  from  the  higher  dune  tops  upon 
panoramas  of  surpassing  splendor.  There  are 
piles  on  piles  of  sandy  hills,  accented  with  green 

[31] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

masses  and  solitary  pines.  These  highways  of  the 
winds  and  storms,  with  their  glittering  crowns  and 
shadowy  defiles,  sweep  into  dim  perspective. 
Their  noble  curves  become  smaller  and  smaller, 


■BOHnpnMBHj 


-'«**. 


feCyf* 


(From  the  Author's  Etching) 


HIGHWAYS  OF  THE  WINDS 


until  they  are  folded  away  and  lost  on  the  hori- 
zon's hazy  rim. 

A  sinuous  ribbon  of  sunlit  beach  winds  along 
the  line  of  the  breakers,  and  meets  the  point  of 
a  misty  headland  far  away. 


[32] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  blue  immensity  of  the  lake  glistens,  and  is 
flecked  with  foam.  White  plumes  are  tossing  and 
waving  along  the  sky-line.  In  the  foreground  lit- 
tle groups  of  sandpipers  are  running  nimbly  along 
the  edges  of  the  incoming  waves,  racing  after  them 
as  they  retreat,  and  lightly  taking  wing  when  they 
come  too  near.  There  are  flocks  of  stately  gulls, 
balancing  themselves  with  set  wings,  high  in  the 
wind,  and  a  few  terns  are  skimming  along  the 
crests.  The  gray  figures  of  two  or  three  herons 
are  stalking  about,  with  much  dignity,  near  some 
driftwood  that  dots  the  dry  sand  farther  up  the 
shore. 

Colors  rare  and  glorious  are  in  the  sky.  The 
sun  is  riding  down  in  a  chariot  of  gold  and  pur- 
ple, attended  by  a  retinue  of  clouds  in  resplendent 
robes.  The  twilight  comes,  the  picture  fades,  but 
the  spell  remains. 

Intrepid  voyagers  from  the  Old  World  jour- 
neyed along  these  primitive  coasts  centuries  ago. 
Their  footprints  were  soon  washed  away  in  the 
surf  lines,  but  the  romance  of  their  trails  still  rests 
upon  the  sands  that  they  traversed. 

In  years  of  obscure  legend,  birch-bark  canoes 

[33] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

were  drawn  out  on  the  gleaming  beach  by  red  men 
who  carried  weapons  of  stone.  They  hunted  and 
fought  among  the  yellow  hills.  They  saw  them 
basking  under  summer  suns,  and  swept  by  the 
furies  of  winter  storms.  From  their  tops  they 
watched  the  dying  glories  of  the  afterglows  in  the 
western  skies.  They  saw  the  great  lake  shimmer 
in  still  airs,  and  heard  the  pounding  of  remorse- 
less waters  in  its  sterner  moods.  They  who  car- 
ried the  weapons  of  stone  are  gone,  and  time  has 
hidden  them  in  the  silence  of  the  past. 

Out  in  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  lake  are  pale 
sandy  floors  that  no  eye  has  ever  seen.  The  mobile 
particles  are  shifted  and  eddied  into  strange  shad- 
owy forms  by  the  inconstant  and  unknown  currents 
that  flow  in  the  gloom.  There  are  white  bones  and 
ghostly  timbers  there  which  are  buried  and  again 
uncovered.  There  are  dunes  under  the  waters,  as 
well  as  on  the  shores.  Slimy  mosses  creep  along 
their  shelving  sides  and  over  their  pallid  tops 
into  profound  chasms  beyond.  Finny  life  moves 
among  the  subaqueous  vegetation  that  thrives  in 
the  fertile  areas,  and  out  over  the  smooth  wastes, 

[34] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

but  this  is  a  world  concealed.  Our  pictures  are 
in  the  air. 

When  winter  lays  its  mantle  of  snow  upon  the 
country  of  the  dunes  the  whitened  crests  loom  in 
softened  lines.  The  contours  become  spectral  in 
their  chaste  robes.  Along  the  frosty  summits  the 
intricacies  of  the  naked  trees  and  branches,  in  their 
winter  sleep,  are  woven  delicately  against  the 
moody  skies,  and  the  hills,  far  away,  draped  in 
their  chill  raiment,  stand  in  faint  relief  on  the 
gray  horizon.  The  black  companies  of  the  crows 
wing  across  the  snow-clad  heights  in  desultory 
flight. 

When  the  bitter  blasts  come  out  of  the  clouds 
in  the  north,  the  light  snow  scurries  over  the  hoary 
tops  into  the  shelters  of  the  hollows.  Out  in  the 
ice  fields  on  the  lake  grinding  masses  heave  with 
the  angry  surges  that  seek  the  shore.  Crystal 
fragments,  shattered  and  splintered,  shine  in 
the  dim  light,  far  out  along  the  margins  of  the 
open,  turbulent  water.  Great  piles  of  broken  ice 
have  been  flung  along  the  beach,  heaped  into  be- 
wildering forms  by  the  billows,  and  a  few  gulls 

[35] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

skirt  the  ragged  frozen  mounds  for  possible  stray 
bits  of  food. 

The  wind  and  the  cold  have  builded  grim  ram- 
parts for  the  sunshine  and  the  April  rains  to 
conquer. 


[  36  J 


(From  the  Author's  Lulling) 


'HERALDS  OF  THE  STORM" 


CHAPTER  II 
THE    GULLS    AND    TERNS 

THE  gulls  are  a  picturesque  and  interesting 
feature  of  dune  life.  These  gray  and 
white  birds,  while  they  do  not  entirely 
avoid  human  association,  have  few  of  the  home- 
like charms  of  most  of  our  feathered  neighbors. 

"Catfish  John,"  the  old  fisherman  with  whom  I 
often  talked  about  the  birds  and  animals  in  the 
dune  country,  had  very  little  use  for  them.  He 
said  that  "they  flopped  'round  a  whole  lot,  an' 
seemed  to  keep  a  goin'."  He  "didn't  never  find 
no  eggs,  an'  they  didn't  seem  to  set  anywheres. 
They  git  away  with  the  bait  when  its  left  out,  an' 
they  seem  mostly  to  live  off'n  fish  an'  dead  things 
they  find  on  the  beach  an'  floatin'  round  in  the 
lake.  They'll  tackle  a  mouthful  big  enough  to 
choke  a  horse  if  they  like  the  looks  of  it." 

He  thought  that  "them  that  roosted  out  on  the 
net  stakes  didn't  go  to  sleep  entirely,  or  they'd  slip 
off  in  the  night." 

The  gull  has  many  charms  for  the  ornithologist 
and  the  poet.     He  is  valuable  to  the  artist,  as  an 

[39] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

accent  in  the  sky,  when  he  is  on  the  wing,  giving 
a  thrill  of  life  to  the  most  desolate  landscape. 

He  is  interesting  to  the  eye  when  proudly  walk- 
ing along  the  beach,  or  sitting  silently,  with  hun- 


"THEM  THAT  ROOSTED  OUT  ON  THE  NET  STAKES" 

dreds  of  others,  in  solemn  conclave  on  the  shore. 
Old  piles  and  floating  objects  in  the  lake  have  an 
added  interest  with  his  trim  figure  perched  upon 
them.  The  perched  birds  seem  magnified  and 
ghostly  when  one  comes  suddenly  upon  them  in 

[40] 


THE    GULLS    AND    TERNS 

the  fog  and  they  disappear  with  shrill  cries  into 
the  mists. 

There  is  no  gleam  of  human  interest  in  the  eye 
of  a  gull.  It  is  fierce,  cold,  and  utterly  wild.  The 
birds  we  love  most  are  those  that  nest  in  the  land 
in  which  we  live.  The  home  is  the  real  bond 
among  living  things,  and  our  feathered  friends 
creep  easily  into  our  affections  when  we  can  hear 
their  love  songs  and  watch  their  home  life. 

The  transient  winged  tribes,  that  come  and  go — 
like  ships  on  the  sea — and  rear  their  young  in 
other  lands,  arouse  our  poetic  reflections,  challenge 
our  admiration,  and  excite  our  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful.    They  delight  our  eyes  but  not  our  hearts. 

The  graceful  forms  of  the  gulls  give  an  ethereal 
note  of  exaltation  to  the  spirit  of  the  landscape — a 
suggestion  of  the  Infinite — as  they  soar  in  long 
curves  in  the  azure  blue,  or  against  the  dark  clouds 
that  roll  up  in  portentous  masses  from  the  distant 
horizon  and  sweep  across  the  heavens  over  the 
great  lake.  They  are  the  heralds  of  the  storms, 
and  a  typical  expression  of  life  in  the  sky. 

Their  matchless  grace  on  the  wing,  as  they  wheel 
in  the  teeth  of  the  tempest  or  glide  with  set  pin- 

[41] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

ions  in  the  currents  of  the  angry  winds,  makes 
them  a  part  of  nature's  dramas  in  the  heavens — 
aloof  and  remote  from  earthly  things — mingling 
with  the  unseen  forces  and  mysteries  of  the  Great 
Unknown. 

These  rovers  of  the  clouds  seem  to  love  no  abodes 
but  the  stormy  skies  and  foaming  waves.  Their 
flights  are  desultory  when  the  winds  are  still. 
When  the  calms  brood  over  the  face  of  the  waters, 
they  congregate  on  the  glassy  surface,  like  little 
white  fleets  at  anchor,  and  rest  for  hours,  until 
hunger  again  takes  them  into  the  air. 

They  often  leave  the  lake  and  soar  over  the 
dune  country  on  windy  days,  searching  far  inland 
for  food,  but  when  night  comes  they  return  to 
the  water. 

In  early  August  they  come  down  from  the  Lake 
Superior  country  and  from  the  more  distant  north, 
where  perhaps  many  of  them  have  spent  the  sum- 
mer near  the  arctic  circle.  They  bring  with  them 
their  big  brown  young,  from  the  rocky  islands  in 
those  remote  regions,  and  to  these  islands  they 
will  return  in  the  spring.  The  young  birds  do  not 
don  their  silver-gray  plumage  until  the  second 
year. 

[42] 


THE    GULLS    AND    TERNS 

In  the  autumn  the  unseen  paths  in  the  sky  are 
filled  with  countless  wings  on  their  way  to  the 
tropics,  but  the  gulls  remain  to  haunt  the  bare 
landscapes  and  the  chill  waters  of  the  lake,  until 
the  return  of  the  great  multitudes  of  migrant  birds 
in  April  or  May,  when  they  leave  for  their  north- 
ern homes. 

In  the  wake  of  the  gulls  come  the  terns — those 
graceful,  gliding  little  creatures  in  pearl-gray 
robes — which  skim  and  hover  over  the  waves,  and 
search  them  for  their  daily  food. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  elf-like  and  wispy 
in  their  flight.  Agile  and  keen  eyed,  with  their 
mosquito-like  bills  pointed  downward,  they  dart 
furtively,  like  water-sprites,  along  the  crests  of  the 
billows,  seeming  to  winnow  the  foam  and  spray. 

With  low  plaintive  cries  the  scattered  flocks  fol- 
low the  surf  lines  against  the  wind  and  the  dipping 
wings  can  be  seen  far  out  over  the  lake. 

They  often  pause  in  the  air,  and  drop  like  plum- 
mets, entirely  out  of  sight  under  water,  in  pursuit 
of  unsuspecting  small  fish,  to  reappear  with  the 
wiggling  tails  of  the  little  victims  protruding  from 
their  bills.     Many  thousands  of  them  patrol  the 

[43] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

shores  and  waters,  but  they  also  are  transients,  and 
soon  wing  their  ways  to  colder  or  warmer  climes. 

The  nature  lover  finds  manifold  charms  in  the 
bird  life  of  the  dune  country.  There  are  many 
varieties  to  interest  him.  While  we  may  endeavor 
to  restrict  our  consideration  to  the  purely  artistic 
side  of  the  subject,  it  would  be  impossible  to  define 
a  point  that  would  separate  the  artistic  instinct 
from  the  love  of  the  live  things,  and  of  nature 
in  general,  for  there  is  no  such  point.  One  merges 
naturally  into  the  other. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  a  lover  of  nature  to  have 
an  exact  scientific  knowledge  of  all  the  things 
he  sees  in  order  to  derive  enjoyment  from  them, 
but  a  trained  observer  is  more  sensitive  to  the 
poetic  influences  of  nature,  has  a  wider  range  of 
vision,  a  greater  capacity  for  appreciation,  and  is 
more  deeply  responsive  to  the  subtle  harmonies 
than  one  who  is  only  susceptible  to  the  more  ob- 
vious aspects. 

The  love  of  the  Little  Things  which  are  con- 
cealed from  the  ordinary  eye  comes  only  to  one 
who  has  sought  out  their  hiding-places,  and  learned 
their  ways  by  tender  and  long  association.    Their 

[44] 


THE    GULLS    AND    TERNS 

world  and  ours  is  fundamentally  the  same,  and  to 
know  them  is  to  know  ourselves. 

We  sometimes  cannot  tell  whether  the  clear, 
flutelike  note  from  the  depths  of  the  ravine  comes 
from  the  thrush  or  the  oriole,  but  we  know  that 
the  little  song  has  carried  us  just  a  little  nearer  to 
nature's  heart  than  we  were  before.  If  we  could 
see  the  singer  and  learn  his  name,  his  silvery  tones 
would  be  still  more  pure  and  sweet  when  he  comes 
again. 

The  spring  songs  in  the  dune  country  seem  to 
exalt  and  sanctify  the  forest  aisles,  and  to  weave 
a  spell  out  over  the  open  spaces.  The  still  sands 
seem  to  awaken  under  the  vibrant  melodies  of  the 
choirs  among  the  trees.  These  sanctuaries  are  not 
for  those  who  would  "shower  shot  into  a  singing 
tree,'''  but  for  him  who  comes  to  listen  and  to  wor- 
ship. 

The  voices  of  the  dunes  are  in  many  keys.  The 
cries  of  the  gulls  and  crows — the  melodies  of  the 
songsters — the  wind  tones  among  the  trees — the 
roar  of  the  surf  on  the  shore — the  soft  rustling 
of  the  loose  sands,  eddying  among  the  beach  grasses 
—the  whirr  of  startled  wings  in  the  ravines — the 

[45] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

piping  of  the  frogs  and  little  toads  in  the  marshy 
spots — the  chorus  of  the  katydids  and  locusts — the 
prolonged  notes  of  the  owls  at  night — and  many 
other  sounds,  all  blend  into  the  greater  song  of 
the  hills,  and  become  a  part  of  the  appeal  to  our 
higher  emotions,  in  this  land  of  enchantment  and 
mystery. 


[46] 


CHAPTER  III 


THE    TURTLES 


SOMETIMES  we  find  interesting  little  com- 
edies mapped  on  the  sands. 
One  morning  the  July  sun  had  come  from 
behind  the  clouds,  after  a  heavy  rain,  and  quickly 
dried  the  surface,  leaving  the  firm,  wet  sand  un- 
derneath. On  the  dunes,  walks  are  particularly 
delightful  when  the  moist,  packed  sand  becomes 
a  yellow  floor,  but  it  requires  much  endurance  and 

[47] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

enthusiasm  to  trudge  through  miles  of  soft  sand 
on  a  hot  day  and  retain  a  contemplative  mood. 

We  suddenly  came  upon  some  turtle  tracks,  be- 
ginning abruptly  out  on  an  open  space,  indicating 
that  the  traveler  had  probably  withdrawn  into  the 
privacy  and  shelter  of  his  mobile  castle,  and  re- 
sumed his  journey  when  the  sun  appeared.  All 
traces  of  his  arrival  at  the  point  where  the  tracks 
began  had  been  obliterated  by  the  rain. 

We  were  curious  to  ascertain  his  objective,  and 
as  the  trail  was  in  perfect  condition,  we  followed 
it  carefully  for  several  hundred  yards,  when  we 
found  another  trail  interrupting  it  obliquely  from 
another  direction.  Within  an  area  of  perhaps 
twenty  feet  in  diameter  the  tracks  had  left  a  con- 
fused network  on  the  smooth  sand.  Evidently 
there  had  been  much  discussion  and  consideration 
before  a  final  decision  had  been  reached.  Then 
the  trails  started  off  in  the  same  direction,  side  by 
side,  varying  from  a  foot  to  two  feet  or  so  apart. 

There  was  much  mystery  in  all  this.  Our  curi- 
osity continued,  and  about  half  a  mile  farther  on 
the  smaller  trail  of  the  last  comer  suddenly  veered 
off  toward  the  lake  and  disappeared  in  the  wet 

[48] 


THE    TURTLES 

sand  of  the  beach.  The  original  trail  finally  ended 
several  hundred  yards  farther  on  in  a  clear  stream, 
and  there  we  saw  Mr.  Hardfinish  resting  quietly 
on  the  shallow  bottom,  with  the  cool  current  flow- 
ing over  him. 

We  may  have  stumbled  on  a  turtle  romance. 
Perhaps  a  tryst  had  been  kept,  and  after  much 
argument  and  persuasion  the  two  had  decided  to 
combine  their  destinies.  It  may  have  been  in- 
compatibility of  temperament,  or  affection  grown 
cold,  which  caused  the  later  estrangement.  A 
fickle  heart  may  have  throbbed  under  the  shell  of 
the  faithless  amphibian  who  had  joined  the  ex- 
pedition, but  whatever  the  cause  of  the  separation 
was,  the  initiator  of  the  journey  had  been  left  to 
finish  it  alone.  His  trail  showed  no  wavering  at 
the  point  of  desertion,  and  evidently  the  rhythm 
of  his  march  was  not  disturbed  by  it. 

There  is  much  food  for  reflection  in  this  story 
on  the  sand.  What  we  call  human  nature  is  very 
largely  the  nature  of  all  animal  life,  and  com- 
munity of  interest  governs  all  association.  When 
it  ceases  to  exist,  the  quadruped  or  biped  invari- 
ably seeks  isolation.     Selfishness  is  soul  solitude. 

[49] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

In  the  case  of  the  turtles  the  highly  civilized 
divorce  courts  were  not  necessary.  They  simply 
quit. 

The  record  of  the  little  romance  was  written 
upon  a  frail  page,  which  the  next  wind  or  shower 
obliterated  as  completely  as  time  effaces  most  of 
the  stories  of  human  lives. 

The  turtles  are  persistent  wanderers.  Their 
trails  are  found  all  through  the  dune  country,  and 
usually  a  definite  objective  seems  to  be  indicated. 
A  trail  will  begin  at  the  margin  of  a  small  pond 
back  of  the  hills,  and  follow  practically  a  direct 
route  for  a  long  distance  to  another  pond,  often 
over  a  mile  away.  Sometimes  high  eminences  in- 
tervene, which  are  patiently  climbed  over  with- 
out material  alteration  in  the  course  which  the 
mysterious  compass  under  the  brown  shell  has  laid 
before  it. 

The  deserted  habitat  may  have  been  invaded 
by  unwelcome  new  arrivals  and  rendered  socially 
unattractive.  Domestic  complications  may  have 
inspired  the  pilgrimage,  the  voyager  may  have 
decided  that  he  was  unappreciated  in  the  com- 
munity in  which  he  lived,  or  he  may  have  been 

[50] 


THE    TURTLES 

excommunicated  for  unbelief  in  established  turtle 
dogmas. 

The  common  variegated  pond  turtle,  which  is 
the  variety  most  often  found  among  the  dunes,  is 
a  beautiful  harmless  creature,  but  his  wicked 
cousin,  the  snapping  turtle,  is  an  ugly  customer. 
He  leads  a  life  of  debased  villainy,  and  no  justifi- 
cation for  his  existence  has  yet  been  discovered. 
He  is  a  rank  outlaw,  and  the  enemy  of  everything 
within  his  radius  of  destruction.  His  crimes  are 
legion,  and  like  the  sand-burr,  he  seems  to  be  one 
of  nature's  inadvertencies.  The  mother  ducks, 
the  frog  folk,  and  all  the  small  life  in  the  sloughs 
dread  his  sinister  bulk  and  relentless  jaws. 

He  is  a  voracious  brute,  and  feeds  upon  all 
kinds  of  animal  fare.  He  often  attains  a  weight 
of  about  forty  pounds,  and  the  rough  moss  cov- 
ered shell  of  a  full  grown  specimen  is  sometimes 
fourteen  inches  long.  One  of  the  peculiarities  of 
this  repulsive  wretch  is  that  he  strikes  at  his 
victims  much  in  the  same  manner  as  a  rattlesnake, 
and  with  lightning-like  rapidity. 

Possibly  he  was  sent  into  the  world  to  assist 
in  enabling  us  to  accentuate  our  blessings  by  con- 

[51] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

trast — as  some  people  we  occasionally  meet  un- 
doubtedly were — and  it  is  best  to  let  him  abso- 
lutely alone.  He  is  an  evil  and  unclean  thing 
and  we  will  pass  him  by.  Like  the  skunk,  he  does 
not  invite  companionship,  and  has  no  social  charms 
whatever. 

It  was  not  he  who  helped   to   play  the   little 
comedy  on  the  sand. 


SOCIALLY    UXATTRACTIVE 


[52] 


am 


warn 


'STEADILY  "WINGING  THEIR  WAY 
TO  THE  CHOSEN  SPOT" 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE   CROWS 

OF  all  the  wild  life  among  the  dunes,  the 
crow  is  the  most  active  and  conspicuous. 
He  is  ever  present  in  the  daytime,  and 
his  black  form  seems  to  be  intimately  associated 
with  nearly  every  mass  and  contour  in  the  land- 
scape. 

The  artists  and  the  poets  can  love  him,  but  the 
hand  of  the  prosaic  and  the  philistine  is  against 
him.  His  enemies  are  numberless,  and  his  life  is 
one  of  constant  combat  and  elusion.  The  owls 
seek  him  at  night,  and  during  the  day  he  meets 
antagonism  in  many  forms.  Some  ornithologists 
have  tried  to  find  justification  for  the  crow,  but 
the  weight  of  the  testimony  is  against  him.  He 
pilfers  the  eggs  and  nestlings  of  the  songsters,  in- 
vades the  newly  planted  cornfields,  and  apparently 
abuses  every  confidence  reposed  in  him. 

He  has  been  known  to  take  his  family  into  fields 
of  sprouting  potatoes  and,  when  the  plants  were 
hardlv  out  of  the  ground,  feed  its  members  on  the 

[55] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

soft  tubers  which  were  used  as  seed.  Even  very 
young  chickens  and  ducks  enter  into  his  economies. 
He  is  an  inveterate  mischiefmaker,  and  by  those 
who  fail  to  see  the  attractive  sides  of  his  character, 
is  looked  upon  as  a  general  nuisance. 

He  cannot  be  considered  valuable  from  a  utili- 
tarian point  of  view,  but  as  a  picturesque  element 
he  possesses  many  charms.  Notwithstanding  the 
sins  laid  at  his  door,  this  bird  is  of  absorbing  in- 
terest. His  genteel  insolence,  his  ability  to  cope 
with  the  wiles  of  his  persecutors,  and  his  complete 
self-assurance  may  well  challenge  our  admiration. 

He  takes  full  charge  of  the  dune  country  be- 
fore the  morning  sun  appears  above  the  horizon, 
and  maintains  his  vigils  until  the  evening  shadows 
relieve  him  from  further  responsibility.  All  of 
the  happenings  on  the  sands,  and  among  the  pines, 
are  subjected  to  his  careful  inspection  and  noisy 
comment.  His  curiosity  is  intense,  and  any  un- 
usual object  or  event  will  attract  his  excited  scru- 
tiny and  an  agitated  assemblage  of  his  friends. 

Like  many  people,  he  is  both  wise  and  foolish 
to  a  surprising  degree.  He  is  crafty  and  circum- 
spect in  his  methods  of  obtaining  food  and  avoid- 

[56] 


THE    CROWS 

ing  most  of  his  enemies,  but  shows  a  lack  of  judg- 
ment when  his  curiosity  is  aroused. 

He  will  approach  quite  near  to  a  person  sitting 
still,  but  will  retreat  in  great  trepidation  at  the 
slightest  movement.  An  old  crow  knows  the  dif- 
ference between  a  cane  and  a  gun,  but  a  man  carry- 
ing a  gun  can  ride  a  horse  much  nearer  to  him 
than  he  can  go  on  foot. 

In  the  community  life  of  the  crows  there  is  much 
material  for  study.  Their  social  organization  is 
cohesive  and  effective.  It  is  impossible  not  to  be- 
lieve that  they  have  a  limited  language.  Different 
cries  produce  different  effects  among  them.  They 
undoubtedly  communicate  with  each  other.  The 
older  and  wiser  crows  have  qualities  of  leadership 
which  compel  or  attract  the  obedience  of  the  sable 
hordes  that  follow  them  in  long  processions 
through  the  air,  to  and  from  the  feeding  grounds, 
and  to  the  roosting-places  at  night. 

The  cries  of  the  leaders  are  distinctive,  and  the 
entire  band  will  wheel  and  change  the  direction  of 
its  flight  when  the  loud  signal  comes  from  the 
head  of  the  column.  These  bands  often  number 
several  thousand  birds. 

[57] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

After  spending  the  day  in  detached  groups,  they 
gather  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  prepare  for  the 
flight  to  the  roosting-grounds,  which  is  an  affair 


(From  the  Author's  Etching) 

NEIGHBORHOOD   GOSSIP 

of  the  utmost  importance  and  ceremony.  A  single 
scout  will  come  ahead,  and  after  slowly  and  care- 
fully inspecting  the  area  in  the  forest  where  the 
night  is  usually  spent,  he  returns  in  the  direction 
from  which  he  came. 

[58] 


THE    CROWS 

In  a  few  minutes  several  crows  come  over  the 
same  course  and  apparently  verify  the  conditions. 
These  also  return,  and  a  little  later,  perhaps  twenty 
or  thirty  more  will  appear  and  fly  all  over  the 
territory  under  consideration.  They  go  and  re- 
port to  the  main  body  beyond  the  hills,  and  soon 
the  horizon  becomes  black  with  the  oncoming 
phalanxes,  steadily  winging  their  way  to  the  chosen 
spot. 

For  a  long  time  the  sky  above  it  is  filled  with 
their  dark  forms,  circling  and  hovering  over  and 
among  the  trees.  Much  uncertainty  seems  to  agi- 
tate them,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  of  noisy  con- 
fusion before  even  comparative  quiet  comes.  It 
requires  about  half  an  hour  for  them  to  get  com- 
fortably settled  after  their  arrival.  Sentinels  are 
posted  and  they  maintain  a  vigilant  watch  during 
the  night. 

I  have  sat  quietly  on  a  log  and  seen  these  mul- 
titudes settle  into  the  trees  around  me  in  the  deep 
woods.  Although  perfectly  motionless,  I  have 
sometimes  been  detected  by  a  watchful  sentinel. 
His  quick,  loud  note  of  alarm  arouses  the  entire 
aggregation,  and  the  air  is  immediately  filled  with 

[59] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

the  turmoil  of  discordant  cries  and  beating  wings. 
Sacred  precincts  have  been  invaded,  and  an  enemy 
is  within  the  gates. 

After  much  anxiety,  and  shifting  of  positions, 
confidence  seems  to  be  finally  restored,  and  the 
black  masses  on  the  bending  boughs  become  quiet. 

A  footfall  on  the  dead  leaves,  the  snapping  of 
a  twig,  a  suspicious  movement  among  the  trees,  or 
the  hoot  of  an  owl,  may  alarm  the  wary  watchers 
and  start  another  uproar  that  will  result  in  com- 
plete desertion  of  the  vicinity  of  the  suspected 
danger. 

When  morning  comes,  various  groups  visit  the 
beach  and  strut  along  the  shore,  drinking  and  pick- 
ing up  stray  morsels.  Dead  fish  that  have  been 
cast  in  by  the  waves,  and  numerous  insects  crawl- 
ing on  the  sand,  are  eagerly  devoured.  Usually 
before  sunrise  the  crows  have  started  out  over  the 
country  in  detached  flocks. 

Like  all  the  affairs  of  the  crows,  courtship  is 
a  serious  and  important  matter.  The  young  male 
stretches  his  wings,  struts  dramatically,  and  per- 
forms all  kinds  of  crow  feats  to  attract  favorable 
glances  from  the  coy  eyes  of  a  black  divinity  who 

[60] 


THE    CROWS 

sits  demurely  still  and  waits.  After  the  manner 
of  female  kind,  she  will  remain  obdurate  as  long 
as  supplication  continues.  She  will  yield  only 
when  it  ceases. 


- 

• 

...      ■^!l^}ti-f-i 

(From  the  Author's  Etching) 

"THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE" 

Several  days  are  spent  in  the  wooing.  It  often 
has  its  vicissitudes.  The  proverbial  course  of  true 
love  has  its  rough  spots,  for  sometimes  shiny-coated 
rivals   come  which   are   insistent   and    boisterous. 


[61] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

They  refuse  to  respect  a  privacy  that  is  much  de- 
sired, and  create  unwelcome  disturbances. 

There  are  battles  in  the  tree-tops  that  send  many 
black  feathers  down  before  the  fickle  beauty  makes 
her  final  decision.  She  has  little  love  for  defeated 
suitors,  and  her  admiration  is  the  spoil  of  the 
victor  when  trouble  comes. 

When  the  love-making  is  over  the  happy  pair 
begin  the  construction  of  the  nest,  which  is  usually 
composed  of  broken  twigs  or  small  bits  of  grape 
vine,  and  lined  with  moss  or  dead  grass.  It  is 
generally  built  about  thirty  feet  from  the  ground 
among  the  strong  branches  in  the  deep  woods.  It 
is  jealously  guarded,  and  combats  with  would-be 
intruders  are  numerous  and  desperate.  The  sharp 
bills  are  effective  weapons  when  the  home  is  at 
stake,  and  it  is  a  bold  invader  who  would  risk  con- 
tact with  them  for  the  sake  of  the  mottled  eggs 
or  the  tender  young  in  the  nest. 

The  crow  may  be  a  subtle  and  artful  villain,  and 
his  evil  ways  may  have  brought  him  into  disrepute, 
but  he  has  picturesque  quality.  His  black  form 
is  often  an  effective  accent  in  composition,  and  his 

[62] 


THE    CROWS 

presence  adds  character  and  interest  to  the  waste 
places. 

The  black  roving  flocks  impart  a  peculiar  charm 
to  the  white  winter  landscapes.  The  bleak  up- 
lands and  the  solemn  trees  in  the  still  bare  woods 
are  enlivened  by  the  dark  busy  forms.  They  seem 
undaunted  by  the  cold  and  but  few  of  them  mi- 
grate. During  the  winter  storms  they  find  what 
refuge  they  can  in  the  seclusion  of  the  hollows 
in  the  deep  woods,  and  among  the  heavy  foliage 
of  the  pines.  They  eke  out  a  precarious  livelihood, 
with  scanty  food  and  uncertain  shelter,  until  na- 
ture becomes  more  heedful  of  their  wants  and 
again  sends  the  springtime  into  the  world. 

This  bird  has  his  own  peculiar  and  special  ways 
of  living,  which  are  adapted  to  his  own  tempera- 
ment and  necessities.  He  is  only  a  crow,  and  na- 
ture never  intended  that  he  should  adjust  himself 
to  the  convenience  and  desires  of  other  forms  of 
animal  life.  He  is  without  ethics  or  conscience, 
and  in  this  he  differs  little  from  the  man  with  a 
gun. 

Some  of  the  most  pleasant  memories  of  the  dunes 
are  clustered  around  "Billy,"  a  pet  crow  which  re- 

[63] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

mained  with  us  one  summer  through  the  kind- 
ness of  a  naturalist  friend.  He  was  acquired  at  a 
tender  age,  a  small  boy  having  abstracted  him 
from  a  happy  home  in  an  old  tree  in  the  deep 
woods. 


(From  the  Author'' s  Etching) 


'BILLY" 


His  early  life  was  devoted  principally  to  bread 
and  milk,  hard  boiled  eggs,  bits  of  meat,  and  other 
food,  with  which  he  had  to  be  constantly  supplied. 
A  large  cage  was  built  for  his  protection  as  well 

[64] 


THE    CROWS 

as  for  his  confinement,  until  he  could  become 
domesticated  and  strong  enough  to  take  care  of 
himself. 

He  became  clamorous  at  unreasonable  morning 
hours,  and  required  constant  attention  during  the 
day.  His  comical  and  whimsical  ways  soon  found 
him  a  place  in  our  affections,  and  Billy  became  a 
member  of  the  family. 

He  developed  a  decided  character  of  his  own. 
When  he  was  old  enough  to  fly  he  was  given  his 
freedom,  which  he  utilized  in  his  own  way.  He 
would  spend  a  large  part  of  his  time  in  a  nearby 
ravine,  studying  the  problems  of  crow  life,  but  his 
visits  to  the  house  were  frequent,  and  his  demands 
insistent  when  he  was  hungry. 

He  would  almost  invariably  discover  the  depar- 
ture of  any  one  of  us  who  left  the  house,  flying 
short  distances  ahead  and  waiting  until  he  was 
overtaken,  or  proudly  riding  on  our  heads  or 
shoulders,  if  he  was  not  quite  sure  of  the  general 
direction  of  the  expedition. 

The  berry  patch  was  a  great  attraction  to  him, 
and  if  we  took  a  basket  with  us  he  would  help 

[65] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

himself  to  the  fruit  after  it  had  been  picked,  much 
preferring  to  have  the  picking  done  for  him. 

One  of  his  delights  was  walking  back  and  forth 
on  the  hammock.  The  loose  meshes  seemed  to 
fascinate  him,  and  he  would  spend  much  time  in 
studying  its  intricacies  and  picking  at  the  knots. 
He  soon  became  distantly  acquainted  with  Gip, 
our  black  cocker  spaniel.  While  no  particular 
intimacy  developed  between  them,  each  seemed  to 
understand  that  the  other  was  a  part  of  the  family. 
They  finally  got  to  the  point  where  they  would 
eat  out  of  the  same  dish. 

Billy  was  a  delightful  companion  on  many 
sketching  trips  into  the  dunes,  and  it  was  amusing 
to  watch  the  perplexities  of  the  wild  crows  when 
my  close  association  with  one  of  their  own  kind 
was  observed.  They  could  not  understand  the  re- 
lationship, and  it  gave  rise  to  much  animated  dis- 
cussion. Billy  was  immediately  visited  when  he 
flew  into  a  tree  top,  and  carefully  looked  over. 
Other  crows  joined  in  the  consultations  and  the 
final  verdict  was  not  always  favorable,  for  hostility 
frequently  became  evident,  and  poor  Billy  was 
compelled    to    leave    the    tree,    often    with    cruel 

[66] 


THE    CROWS 

wounds.  He  was  probably  regarded  as  a  heretic 
and  a  backslider,  who  had  violated  all  crow  tra- 
ditions— a  fit  subject  for  ostracism  and  seclusion 
beyond  the  pale. 

He  promptly  responded  to  my  call  when  he  got 
into  trouble,  or  thought  it  might  be  lunch-time. 
He  would  watch  with  much  interest  the  undoing 
of  the  sandwiches,  and  would  wait  expectantly  on 
my  knee  for  the  coveted  tid-bits  which  constituted 
his  share  of  the  meal. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  the  return, 
Billy's  interest  in  the  day's  proceedings  seemed  to 
flag,  and  he  would  suddenly  disappear,  not  to  be 
seen  again  until  the  next  morning,  when  he  would 
alight  on  the  rail  of  the  back  porch  and  loudly 
demand  his  breakfast. 

I  was  never  able  to  ascertain  where  he  spent  a 
great  part  of  his  time.  His  identity  was,  of  course, 
lost  when  he  was  with  the  other  crows  unless  he 
happened  to  get  into  a  storm  center  near  the  house, 
and  we  only  knew  him  when  he  was  with  us. 

He  had  the  elemental  love  of  color,  which  al- 
ways begins  with  red,  and  the  vermilion  on  my 
palette  seemed  to  exercise  a  spell  over  him.   After 

[67] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

getting  his  bill  into  it,  he  would  plume  and  pick 
his  feathers,  and  I  have  spent  considerable  time 
with  a  rag  and  benzine  in  trying  to  make  him 
presentable  after  he  had  produced  quite  good  post- 
impressionistic  pictures  on  the  feathers  of  his 
breast. 

Occasionally  he  would  take  my  pencils  or 
brushes  into  the  trees  while  I  was  at  work,  and 
play  with  them  for  some  time,  but  would  not  re- 
turn anything  that  he  had  once  secured.  I  often 
had  difficulty  in  recovering  lost  articles,  but  usu- 
ally he  would  accidentally  drop  them.  In  such 
cases  there  would  be  a  race  between  us,  for  he 
quickly  became  jealous  of  their  possession. 

Billy  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  affectionate,  and 
would  often  come  to  be  petted,  alighting  on  my 
outstretched  hand  and  holding  his  head  down 
toward  me.  When  his  head  feathers  were  stroked 
gently,  low,  contented  sounds  indicated  the  pleas- 
ure he  took  in  the  attention  devoted  to  him. 

Stories  of  the  numerous  little  tricks  and  insinu- 
ating ways  of  this  interesting  bird  could  occupy 
many  pages,  but  enough  has  been  told  to  convey 
an  idea  of  his  character.     Perhaps  he  may  have 

[68] 


THE    CROWS 

been  a  rascal  at  heart,  but  his  ancestry  was  respon- 
sible for  his  moral  shortcomings. 

One  morning  we  missed  Billy,  and  we  possibly 
have  never  seen  him  since.  He  may  have  answered 
"the  call  of  the  wild"  and  joined  the  black  com- 
pany that  goes  over  into  the  back  country  in  the 
morning  and  returns  to  the  bluffs  at  night,  or  he 
may  have  fallen  a  victim  to  indiscriminating  over- 
confidence  in  mankind — a  misfortune  that  is  not 
confined  to  crows. 

He  left  tender  recollections  with  us.  He  had 
an  engaging  personality,  and  was  a  most  admirable 
and  lovable  crow.  Such  an  epitaph  would  be  due 
him  if  he  has  departed  from  life,  and  a  more  sin- 
cere tribute  could  not  be  offered  him  if  he  still 
lives. 

During  the  following  year  I  was  able  to  ap- 
proach quite  near  to  a  crow  who  seemed  to  show 
slight  signs  of  recognition.  A  broken  pinion  in 
his  left  wing,  a  reminiscence  of  a  vicious  battle 
in  the  fall,  seemed  to  complete  the  identification 
of  Billy.  He  appeared  to  be  making  his  head- 
quarters in  the  ravine.  Further  careful  observa- 
tion and  investigation  convinced  me  that  if  this 
crow  was  actually  Billy,  he  had  laid  three  eggs. 

[69] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  name,  however,  meant  much  to  us,  and  by 
simply  changing  its  spelling  to  "Billie,"  we  pre- 
served its  pleasant  associations. 


A  HAPPY  HOME 


It  was  a  contented  couple  whose  nest  was  in  the 
gnarled  branches  in  the  ravine,  where  the  little 
home  was  protected  from  the  chill  spring  winds. 
In  due  time  small,  queer-looking  heads  appeared 

[70] 


THE    CROWS 

above  the  edge  of  the  nest,  with  widely  opened 
bills  that  clamored  continuously  for  the  bits  of 
food  which  the  assiduous  parents  had  to  supply 
constantly.  The  nest  required  much  attention. 
Marauding  red  squirrels,  owls,  hawks,  and  other 
enemies  had  to  be  kept  away  from  the  time  the 
first  egg  was  laid  until  the  fledglings  were  old 
enough  to  fly.  Their  first  attempts  resulted  in 
many  falls,  but  they  soon  became  experts,  and  one 
morning  the  entire  family  was  gone. 

They  probably  flew  over  into  the  back  country, 
where  food  was  more  abundant  and  where  they 
were  subjected  to  less  observation. 

The  nest  was  never  used  again.  The  twigs,  little 
pieces  of  wild  grapevine,  and  moss  of  which  it  was 
made,  have  gradually  fallen  away  during  the  suc- 
ceeding years,  until  but  a  few  fragments  remain 
in  the  tree  crotch.  A  red  lead  pencil  was  found 
under  the  tree.  Possibly  "Billie"  may  have  tucked 
it  in  among  the  twigs  as  a  souvenir  of  former 
ties,  or  its  color  may  have  suggested  esthetic  adorn- 
ment of  a  happy  home. 


[71] 


• 


"6L>    3f?K 


/■ 


CHAPTER  V 

OLD    SIPES 

BEYOND  its  barren  wastes,  inland,  the  dune 
country  merges  into  the  fertile  soil  and 
comes  into  contact  with  the  highly  trained 
selfishness  which  in  this  age  of  iron  we  call  civili- 
zation. The  steady  waves  of  such  a  civilization 
have  thrown  upon  this  desolate  margin  some  of 
its  human  derelicts — men  who  have  failed  in  the 
strife  and  who  have  been  cast  ashore.     Their  little 


[73] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

huts  of  driftwood  are  scattered  here  and  there  at 
long  distances  from  each  other,  among  the  depres- 
sions and  behind  the  big  masses  of  sand  along  the 
shore. 

Their  faces  wear  a  dejected  look.  They  walk 
with  shambling  step,  and  their  bearing  is  that  of 
men  who  have  received  heavy  blows  in  their  early 
struggles,  which  have  extinguished  the  light  in 
their  lives.  They  are,  as  a  rule,  morose  and 
taciturn.  They  have  become  desocialized,  and 
have  sullenly  sunk  into  the  hermit  lives  that  har- 
monize with  the  dead  and  tangled  roots  which 
the  roving  sands  have  left  uncovered  to  bleach 
and  decay  in  the  sun  and  rain. 

They  eke  out  a  simple  existence  with  their  nets 
and  set-lines  in  the  lake,  and  by  shooting  and 
trapping  the  small  game  which  still  lives  in  this 
region.  The  driftwood  supplies  them  with  fuel 
in  winter,  and  occasional  wreckage  that  is  washed 
ashore  sometimes  adds  conveniences  and  com- 
parative luxury  to  their  impoverished  abodes. 

The  world  has  gone  on  without  them,  and  they 
are  content  to  exist  in  solitudes  where  time  is 
measured  by  years,   rather  than  by  achievement. 

[74] 


OLD    SIPES 

Sometimes  the  bitterness  of  a  broken  heart,  or 
the  story  of  thwarted  hopes,  will  come  to  the  sur- 
face out  of  the  turbid  memories  which  they  carry. 
When  their  confidence  is  inspired  by  sympathetic 
association,  they  will  often  turn  back  some  of  the 
hidden  pages  in  the  stories  of  their  lives,  which 
are  almost  always  of  vivid  interest. 

Feeble  flashes  will  then  light  up  from  among 
the  dying  embers.  The  story  is  not  the  one  of 
success  that  the  world  loves  to  hear,  but  it  is 
usually  the  melodies  in  the  minor  keys  that  touch 
our  hearts.  Many  of  the  simple  narratives,  told 
under  the  roof  of  driftwood,  before  the  rude  scrap 
iron  stove,  are  full  of  homely  philosophy,  subtle 
wit,  and  tragic  interest. 

"Old  Sipes"  was  a  grotesque  character.  He  was 
apparently  somewhere  in  the  seventies.  He 
had  but  one  eye,  his  whiskers  were  scraggly,  un- 
equal in  distribution,  and  uncertain  as  to  direction. 
His  old  faded  hat  and  short  gray  coat  were  quite 
the  worse  for  wear,  and  a  few  patches  on  his 
trousers,  put  on  with  sail  stitches,  added  a  pic- 
turesque nautical  quality  to  his  attire. 

He  lived  in  a  small  driftwood  hut,  compactly 

[75] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

built,  about  sixteen  feet  long,  and  perhaps  ten  feet 
wide.  A  rude  bunk  was  built  into  one  side  of 
the  single  room,  and  another  was  placed  about 
three  feet  above  it. 

He  explained  this  arrangement  of  the  bunks 
with  quite  a  long  story  about  a  friend  of  his  named 
Bill  Saunders.  It  seems  that  he  and  Saunders 
had  once  been  shipmates.  They  had  been  around 
the  world  together,  and  had  cruised  in  many  far- 
off  waters.  A  howling  gale  and  a  lee  shore  had 
finally  put  an  inglorious  end  to  the  old  ship  and 
most  of  the  crew,  and  left  Sipes  and  Bill  on  an 
unknown  island  in  the  South  Pacific. 

His  stories  of  the  man-eating  sharks  and  other 
sea  monsters  which  infested  these  waters,  were 
hair-raising,  and  his  descriptions  of  the  wonderful 
natives  whom  they  met,  indicated  that  somewhere 
a  race  of  people  exists  that  the  ethnologists  have 
never  found — and  would  be  much  astounded  if 
they  did.  His  accounts  of  man-apes  and  strange 
reptiles,  olive-skinned  beauties,  and  fierce  war- 
like men  nearly  seven  feet  tall,  would  have  made 
a  modern  marine  novelist  pale  with  envy. 

No  ship  had  ever  sailed  that  was  as  stanch  as 

[76] 


OLD    SIPES 

the  "Blue  Porpoise,"  and  no  winds  had  ever  blown 
before  like  those  that  took  awray  her  proud  sails 
and  ripped  the  shrouds  from  her  sides.  No  fish- 
poles  had  ever  bent  as  her  masts  did  when  the 
ropes  parted,  and  no  waves  had  ever  soared  as 
high  as  those  that  broke  in  her  faithful  ribs,  and 
cast  the  two  shipmates  high  on  the  sands  of  that 
distant  island. 

After  years  of  waiting  for  a  friendly  sail,  Bill 
married  into  the  royal  family  several  times,  and 
became  a  part  of  the  kingdom.  Sipes  persist- 
ently resisted  blandishment  for  nearly  five  years, 
when  a  small  cloud  of  black  smoke  on  the  horizon 
gradually  grew  into  a  tramp  steamer.  A  boat 
came  ashore  for  fresh  water,  and  our  hero  gladly 
became  a  member  of  the  crew,  leaving  happy  Bill 
in  the  land  of  luxury  and  promiscuous  matri- 
mony. After  a  long  voyage  he  was  put  ashore 
at  some  gulf  port  and  became  a  wanderer. 

How  he  got  into  the  sand  hills  he  didn't  exactly 
know,  but  his  idea  was  to  keep  as  far  as  possible 
away  from  salt  water.  He  had  developed  an  an- 
tipathy for  it,  and  felt  that  the  lake  would  be  quite 
sufficient  for  his  future  needs. 

[77] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

I  asked  him  how  he  spent  his  time,  and  he  said, 
"mostly  smokin1  an'  thinkin'  about  Bill,  an'  them 
sirenes,  an'  their  little  black  an'  tan  families, 
'way  off  down  there  in  the  South  Pacific." 


J 


"THINKIN'   ABOUT    BILL   AN'    THEM    SIRENES" 


He  hoped  that  Bill  would  change  his  mind  and 
come  back  to  a  decent  country.  Perhaps  Bill 
might  find  him  here,  and  if  he  did  the  extra 
bunk  would  come  in  handy.  He  said  that  some- 
how he  didn't  feel  so  lonesome  with  the  other 
bunk  above  him,  and,  at  night,  he  often  thought 
that  maybe  Bill  was  in  it. 

His  idea  of  what  constitutes  companionship  may 

[78] 


OLD    SIPES 

appear  a  little  crude  to  some  of  us,  but  after  all 
it  is  our  point  of  view  that  makes  us  happy  or 
unhappy  in  this  world. 

I  asked  him  if  he  thought  Bill  would  be  able 
to  find  him  if  he  ever  tried  to,  and  he  replied, 
"never  you  mind — you  leave  that  to  Bill.  He's 
a  wonder." 

I  regretted  that  he  did  not  tell  me  all  about 
what  happened  to  Bill  after  he  had  left  him  on 
the  island.  This  would  not  have  been  at  all  im- 
possible if  he  had  taken  up  the  subject  with  the 
same  compositional  abilitv  that  he  applied  to  the 
rest  of  his  narrative. 

His  conversational  charms  were  somewhat 
marred  by  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech, 
which  he  said  had  been  acquired  in  trying  to  pro- 
nounce the  names  of  all  the  foreign  parts  he  had 
visited.  Now  that  he  had  got  settled  down  the 
impediment  was  becoming  much  less  troublesome. 

His  brawny  arms  and  chest  were  tattooed  with 
fantastic  oriental  designs — fiery-mouthed  dragons, 
coiling  snakes  in  blue  and  red,  and  rising  suns — 
which  he  said  had  been  "put  on  by  a  Chink"  when 
he  was   ashore   for   three  weeks   in   Hong   Kong. 

[79] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  intricacy  and  elaborateness  of  the  work  in- 
dicated that  a  large  part  of  the  three  weeks  must 
have  been  spent  with  the  tattoo  expert,  for  he  had 
absorbed  much  more  of  Chinese  art  in  the  short 
time  he  had  been  in  contact  with  it  than  most 
modern  scholars  do  in  a  lifetime. 

In  answer  to  a  delicate  allusion  to  his  missing 
eye,  he  declared*  that  it  had  been  blown  out  in  a 
gale  somewhere  off  the  coast  of  Japan.  The  ter- 
rible winds  had  prevailed  for  nearly  two  weeks, 
and  his  shipmate,  Bill  Saunders,  had  lost  all  of 
his  clothes  during  the  blow.  The  eye  had  gone 
to  leeward  and  was  never  recovered.  He  said  it 
was  glass  anyway,  and  he  never  thought  much  of 
it.  How  the  original  eye  had  been  lost  he  did 
not  explain.  He  wore  what  he  called  a  "hatch" 
over  the  place  where  the  eye  ought  to  be,  and 
said  that  "as  long  as  there  was  nothin'  goin'  out," 
he  "didn't  want  nothin'  comin'  in." 

His  "live  eye,"  as  he  called  it,  had  a  wide  range 
of  expression.  It  was  shrewd  and  quizzical  at 
times,  occasionally  merry,  and  often  sad.  It  would 
glitter  fiercely  when  he  talked  of  some  of  his 
"aversions,"  or  told  of  wrongs  he  had   suffered. 

[80] 


OLD    SIPES 

In  his  reminiscent  moods  it  would  remain  half 
closed,  and  there  was  a  certain  far-away  look  that 
seemed  to  wander  in  obscurity-  This  lone  eye  was 
the  distinguishing  feature  of  a  personality  that 
seemed  to  dominate  the  little  world  around  it. 

I  asked  this  ancient  mariner  if  he  had  many 
visitors.  He  replied  that  the  artists  bothered  him 
some,  but  outside  of  that  he  seldom  saw  anybody 
"  Vept  them  I  have  business  with,  an'  them  two 
guys  that  live  about  three  miles  apart  down  the 
shore,  an'  the  game  warden  that  comes  'long  oncet 
in  a  while.  If  people  commence  buttin'  in  'ere 
I'm  goin'  to  git  out,  an'  go  'bout  forty  miles  north, 
where  I  can't  hear  the  cars.  I  ain't  got  much  to 
move.  The  stuff  11  all  go  in  the  boat,  an'  I'll  just 
take  my  ol'  flannel  collar  an'  the  sock  I  keep  it 
in,  an'  skip." 

He  seemed  to  feel  that  he  could  properly 
criticize  most  of  the  people  he  had  met,  being 
practically  free  from  frailties  himself.  Although 
he  was  somewhat  of  a  pessimist,  there  was  seldom 
much  heartfelt  bitterness  in  what  he  said.  His 
mental  attitude  was  usually  that  of  a  patronizing 
and  indulgent  observer.     His  satirical  comments 

[81] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

were  generally  tempered  with  unconscious  humor. 
He  knew  that  out  beyond  the  margins  of  the  yel- 
low hills  lay  a  world  of  sin,  for  he  had  been  in 
it,  and  his  friend  Bill  was  in  it  now.  His  philos- 
ophy did  not  contemplate  the  possible  redemp- 
tion of  anybody  he  had  ever  met  in  the  dunes,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions.  He  thought  that  most  of 
them  were  "headed   fer  the  coals." 

"Happy  Cal,"  was  one  of  his  pet  aversions,  and 
from  a  human  standpoint,  he  considered  him  a 
total  loss.  They  had  once  been  friends,  but  Sipes 
was  now  "miffed"  and  there  was  rancor  in  his 
heart.  Cal  had  "gone  off  som'eres,"  but  the  wound 
was  unhealed.  The  trouble  originated  over  the 
ownership  of  a  bunch  of  tangled  set-lines,  which 
had  got  loose  somewhere  out  in  the  lake,  and 
drifted  ashore  some  years  ago.  It  was  conceded 
that  neither  of  them  had  owned  the  lines  origi- 
nally, but  Cal  thought  they  ought  to  belong  to 
him  as  he  had  seen  them  first. 

Sipes  descried  the  soggy  mass  and  carried  it  up 
the  beach  to  his  shanty.  Cal  came  after  the  prize 
before  daylight  the  next  morning,  but  found  that 
he  had  been  forestalled.     Sipes  spent  two  days  in 

[82] 


OLD    SIPES 

getting  the  tangles  out  and  had  stretched  the  lines 
out   to   dry.     One   night   they  were   mysteriously 
visited  and  cut  to  pieces. 
A  few  days  later  a  piece  of  board,  nailed  cross- 


• 


i  ■  i 


wise  to  a  stake  which  was  driven  into  the  sand, 
appeared  about  a  mile  down  the  shore,  between 
the  two  shanties.  On  it  was  the  crude  inscrip- 
tion:— "The  Partys  that  cut  them  lines  is  knone." 
While  protesting  that  he  was  perfectly  inno- 

[33] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

cent,  Cal  looked  upon  this  as  a  deadly  personal 
affront,  and  the  entente  cordiale  was  forever 
broken. 

After  this  Sipes  bored  a  small  hole  in  the  side 
of  his  shanty,  through  which  he  could  secretly 
reconnoiter  the  landscape  in  Cal's  direction  when 
occasion  required.  He  was  satisfied  that  Cal 
would  be  up  to  something  some  day  that  he  would 
catch  him  at,  and  thus  even  the  score. 

I  had  noticed  a  similar  hole  in  the  side  of  Cal's 
hut,  during  a  day  that  I  had  spent  with  him  two 
years  before. 

Since  the  disappearance  of  Cal  the  old  man  had 
used  the  peep  hole  to  enable  him  to  avoid  the  visits 
of  a  certain  other  individual  with  whom  he  had 
become  disgusted.  Through  it  he  would  study 
any  distant  approaching  figure  on  the  shore  that 
looked  suspicious,  with  an  old  brass  marine  spy 
glass,  that  he  said  "had  bin  on  salt  water."  If 
he  was  not  pleased  with  his  inspection,  he  would 
quietly  slip  out  on  the  opposite  side  and  disappear 
until  the  possible  visitor  had  passed,  or  had  called 
and  discovered  that  Mr.  Sipes  was  not  in.  He 
referred    to    his    instrument    as    a    "spotter,"    and 

[84] 


OLD    SIPES 

claimed  that  it  saved  him  a  lot  of  misery.  While 
more  refined  methods  of  accomplishing  such  an 
object  are  often  used,  none  could  be  more  effective. 

After  learning  what  the  orifice  was  for,  I  always 
felt  highly  flattered  when  I  found  my  old  friend 
at  home,  although  I  sometimes  had  rather  a  curi- 
ous sensation,  in  walking  up  the  shore,  feeling 
that  far  away  the  single  brilliant  eye  of  old  Sipes 
might  be  twinkling  at  me  through  the  rickety  old 
spy  glass.  Astronomers  tell  of  unseen  stars  in  the 
universe,  which  are  found  only  with  the  most 
powerful  telescopes.  These  orbs,  isolated  in  awful 
space,  may  be  scrutinizing  our  sphere  with  the 
same  curiosity  as  that  behind  the  little  spotter 
in  the  dim  distance  on  the  beach. 

I  made  a  practice  of  taking  a  particularly  good 
cigar  with  me  on  these  expeditions,  especially  for 
Sipes,  which  may  have  helped  to  account  for  his 
almost  invariable  presence  when  I  arrived.  He 
would  accept  it  with  a  deprecating  smile  and  a 
low  bow.  If  the  weather  was  pleasant  he  would 
seat  himself  outside  on  the  sand,  with  his  back 
against  the  side  of  the  shanty,  and  extend  his  feet 
over    the    crosspiece    of    a    dilapidated    saw-buck 

[85] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

near  the  door.  He  would  carefully  remove  the 
paper  band  from  the  cigar,  light  it,  and  tilt  it  to 
a  high  angle.  After  a  few  whiffs  of  the  fragrant 
weed,  he  once  sententiously  remarked,  "Say,  this 
is  the  life! — I'd  ruther  be  settin'  right  'ere,  smok- 
in'  this  'ere  seegar,  than  to  be  some  famous  mutt 
commandin'  a  ship." 

The  cigar  bands  were  always  scrupulously  saved. 
He  hoped  eventually  to  get  enough  of  them  to 
paste  around  the  edges  of  a  picture  which  was 
stuck  up  on  his  wall  opposite  the  bunks,  and  was 
willing  to  smoke  all  the  cigars  that  might  be  neces- 
sary to  furnish  the  requisite  number  of  bands  for 
this  frame,  which  he  thought  would  "look  fine." 
The  picture  had  been  taken  from  the  colored 
supplement  of  some  old  sporting  journal,  and 
depicted  two  prominent  pugilists  in  violent  action. 
When  he  had  "cussed  out"  nearly  everybody  else, 
he  would  take  up  the  case  of  one  of  these  cham- 
pions, who  had  gone  into  the  ring  once  too  often. 
His  ornate  vocabulary  came  into  splendid  play  on 
these  occasions,  and  the  unfortunate  "pug"  had 
no  professional  reputation  left  when  the  old  man 
had  finished  his  remarks. 

[86] 


OLD    SIPES 

There  was  an  interesting  and  formidable  array 
of  armament  in  Sipes's  shanty.  In  one  corner 
stood  an  old-fashioned  muzzle-loading,  big  bore 
shotgun,  weighing  about  sixteen  pounds,  with 
rusty  barrels  and  one  broken  hammer.  The  stock 
had  once  been  split,  but  had  been  carefully  re- 
paired and  bound  with  wire.  It  was  a  murderous 
looking  weapon. 

A  heavy  rifle  of  antiquated  pattern  was  sus- 
pended from  a  couple  of  hooks  above  the  bunks, 
but  the  old  man  explained  that  this  piece  of  ord- 
nance was  "no  good,"  as  he  "couldn't  git  no  cat- 
ritches  that  'ud  fit  it,  an'  it  'ad  a  busted  trigger 
an'  a  bum  lock."  He  had  traded  some  skins  for 
it  years  ago,  and  "the  feller  that  'ad  it  didn't  'ave 
no  catritches  neither.  I  was  stung  in  that  trade, 
but  them  skins  wasn't  worth  nothin'  neither. 
Some  day  I'll  trade  it  off  to  some  feller  that  wants 
a  good  rifle." 

On  the  shelf  was  a  sinister  looking  firearm, 
which  had  once  been  a  smooth-bore  army  musket. 
The  barrel  had  been  sawed  off  to  within  a  foot 
of  the  breech.  This  he  called  his  "scatter  gun." 
It  was  kept  loaded  with  about  six  ounces  of  black 

[87] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

powder,  and  wadded  on  top  of  this  was  a  handful 
of  pellets  which  he  had  made  out  of  flour  dough, 
mixed  with  red  pepper,  and  dried  in  the  sun.  He 
explained  that,  at  three  rods,  such  a  charge  would 
go  just  under  the  skin.  "It  wouldn't  kill  nothin', 
but  it  'ud  be  hot  stuff."  He  was  keeping  it  "fer 
a  certain  purpose,"  the  nature  of  which  he  refused 
to  divulge. 

The  intended  destiny  of  the  "hot  stuff"  was  sug- 
gested by  a  story  I  afterwards  heard  from  "Catfish 
John."  It  seems  that  an  eccentric  character  occa- 
sionally roamed  along  the  beach  who  was  a  theo- 
logical fanatic.  He  had  tried  to  convert  Sipes,  and 
had  often  left  tracts  around  the  shanty  when  the 
owner  was  absent.  He  was  intensely  Calvinistic 
and  utterly  uncompromising  in  his  beliefs.  John 
did  not  consider  that  he  was  "quite  all  thar." 
This  unkempt  individual  projected  his  red  bushy 
whiskers  and  wild  eyes  through  Sipes'  open  win- 
dow one  night. 

"Do    you    believe    in    infant    damnation?"    he 
roared. 

"Wot?"  asked  the  dumfounded  Sipes. 

"  'Cause  if  ye  don't  yer  jest  as  sure  to  go  to  hell 

[88] 


OLD    SIPES 

as  the  sun  is  to  rise  tomorrer  mornin',"  the  intruder 
continued.  He  then  left  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
come.  "Sipes  sailed  a  pufectly  good  egg  after  'im, 
but  it  didn't  stick,'1  remarked  John. 

It  was  Sipes's  custom  to  take  the  old  shot  gun 
over  into  the  marshes  of  the  back  country,  and 
shoot  ducks  in  the  fall  and  spring.  His  ideas  of 
killing  ducks  were  worthy  of  the  Stone  Age,  for 
it  was  meat  that  he  sought,  and  not  sport.  He 
always  "killed  'em  settin',''  and  would  "lay  fer  'em 
'till  fifteen  er  twenty  got  in  a  bunch,  an'  then  let 
'em  'ave  both  bar'ls. 

"I  don't  allow  nobody  but  me  to  shoot  that  gun. 
It  kicks  like  it  was  drivin'  some  spiles,  an'  so  does 
my  scatter  gun.  When  it  goes  off  one  end  is 
pretty  near  as  bad  as  the  other.  I  fetch  them 
ducks  home  an1  salt  down  them  I  can't  use  right 
off,  an'  sometimes  I  git  enough  to  last  all  winter." 

I  suggested  that  lighter  charges  might  cause  less 
recoil,  and  do  just  as  much  execution. 

"Not  on  yer  life,"  he  replied,  "if  they  ain't  no 
kick  behind  they  won't  be  no  kick  forrads,  an'  the 
shot  won't  go  no  distance.  Now  just  lemme  show 
you." 

[89] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

In  spite  of  my  protest,  he  got  the  gun  out,  loaded 
it  far  beyond  its  maximum  efficiency,  and  fired 
it  at  a  passing  flock  of  sandpipers,  that  were  for- 
tunately beyond  range.  The  report  was  like  a 
thunder  clap,  and  when  the  echoes  died  away,  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  innocent  little  creatures 
had  escaped  unharmed,  he  explained  that  he 
"wasn't  any  good  at  shootin'  'era  flyin',  but  them 
shot  made  'em  skip  all  right." 

I  had  my  own  suspicions  as  to  what  had  made 
the  little  birds  "skip." 

His  supplies  of  ammunition  were  obtained  for 
him  at  the  general  store  in  the  sleepy  village  by 
his  old  friend  "Catfish  John,"  whose  reward  con- 
sisted in  portions  of  the  bloody  spoil  from  the 
marshes. 

Sipes's  shanty  would  have  been  a  most  unpleas- 
ant place  to  approach  if  hostility  should  develop 
inside  of  it.  He  "didn't  want  no  monkeyin'  'round 
that  joint,  an'  they  wasn't  goin'  to  be  none." 

It  was  to  the  old  man's  credit  that  he  let  most 
of  the  wild  life  alone  that  he  could  not  utilize. 
The  crows,  gulls,  and  herons  along  the  beach  did 
not    interest  him.     The    songsters    and    the    little 

[90] 


OLD    SIPES 

shore  birds  were  exempt  on  account  of  their  size. 
They  required  too  much  ammunition,  and  it  was 
too  much  trouble  to  pick  them. 

mi  ■.WKKm 


THE   DISTU 


IN  THE  RAVINE 


Occasionally  a  pair  of  eagles  would  soar  around 
over  the  dune  country.  These  he  longed  to  kill, 
but  he  could  never  get  near  enough  to  them.  The 
wary  birds  were  inconsiderate,  and  "wouldn't 
never  light,  'cept  away  off." 

A  "hoot'n  owl"  somewhere  in  the  ravine  caused 


[91] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

him  many  sleepless  nights.  Its  prolonged  and 
unearthly  cries  frequently  startled  him  from 
dreams  of  his  friend  Bill  off  in  the  South  Pacific, 
and  he  spent  many  hours  prowling  softly  around 
among  the  trees  in  the  darkness,  trying  to  locate 
the  offender.  Probably  the  owl,  in  the  wisdom  of 
his  kind,  had  kept  the  silent  stealthy  figure  under 
observation,  and  was  careful  not  to  do  any  hooting 
within  shooting  distance, — certainly  an  example 
to  be  emulated.  He  usually  resumed  his  lamenta- 
tions when  Sipes  returned  to  his  shanty. 

The  old  man  had  this  owl  listed  as  one  of  his 
bitter  enemies,  and  annihilation  awaited  the  wily 
bird  if  he  ever  found  it.  "One  hoot'n  owl's  too 
dam'  many  to  have  'round,"  he  declared.  "This 
critter  reminds  me  o'  one  night  when  I  was  on  a 
ship  off  the  coast  o'  South  Ameriky. 

"I  was  aloft  on  one  o'  the  yard-arms,  an'  there 
was  a  little  roll  on  the  sea.  I  seen  some  long 
white  streaks  o'  foam  comin',  about  two  points 
offen  the  lee  bow,  an'  there  was  sumpen  that  shined 
in  the  moonlight  mixed  up  in  it.  It  seemed  all 
vellow,  an'  about  two  hundred  feet  long,  an'  it 
flopped  up  an'  down.    When  it  got  close,  it  opened 

[92] 


OLD    SIPES 

up  a  mouth  pretty  near  half  as  big  as  the  ship, 
an'  let  out  an  awful  yell.  It  sounded  like  a  hoot'n 
owl,  only  ten  thousand  times  louder  an'  deeper. 
Then  it  dove  down  an'  went  under  the  ship.  The 
sails  all  shook,  an'  my  blood  was  froze,  so  I  could- 
n't call  out  to  the  feller  at  the  wheel,  an'  I  dropped 
off  on  to  the  deck. 

"I  never  found  out  what  the  cussed  thing  was. 
If  I'd  bin  drinkin'  very  much  I'd  'a'  thought  I  had 
the  jimmies.  The  wheel  feller  said  he  hadn't 
noticed  nothin',  but  I  did  all  the  same,  an'  I'll 
never  fergit  it. 

"I  had  some  ter'ble  experiences  off  down  there 
in  that  part  o'  the  gorgofy.  We  sailed  fer  months 
an'  months,  an'  never  seen  nothin'  but  the  big 
waves  an'  the  sky.  There  wras  a  lot  o'  latitude  an' 
longitude,  an'  me  an'  Bill  used  to  offen  wonder, 
when  we  was  roostin'  out  on  the  bowsprit  smokin' 
at  night,  what  'ud  happen  if  we  butted  into  one  o' 
them  lines  that's  always  runnin'  up  an'  down  an' 
sideways  on  them  salt  water  maps. 

"There  was  ter'ble  perils  all  the  time.  Some- 
times we'd  run  among  icebergs,  an  waterspouts, 
an'  cyclones,  an'  we  wallered  in  bilin'  seas,  an'  the 

[93] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

skies  was  black  as  yer  hat,  an'  we  got  lost  on  the 
ocean  a  couple  o'  times,  an'  we  got  smashed  up 
on  that  island  I  told  ye  about.  You  bet  this  lake's 
plenty  wet  enough  fer  me,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  spatter 
'round  right  'ere,  an'  if  Bill  was  only  'ere  instid 
o'  cavortin'  'round  with  them  South  Pacific 
floozies,  I'd  be  all  right." 

Some  of  Sipes's  many  sea  yarns  sounded  suspi- 
ciously like  stories  I  had  read  in  early  youth,  but 
I  generally  gave  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  as 
he  did  not  need  to  be  strictly  truthful  to  be  enter- 
taining. In  one  instance  he  related  a  thrilling 
tale  in  which  his  experiences  were  practically 
identical  with  those  of  the  hero  in  a  favorite  yel- 
low covered  treasure  of  years  ago.  I  rather  tact- 
lessly called  his  attention  to  that  fact.  He  at  once 
replied,  "Now  you  see  how  queer  some  things  git 
'round  in  this  world.     I  was  that  feller/' 

After  that  I  considered  comment  hopeless,  and 
simply  listened. 

Perhaps  this  lonely  philosopher  may  have  solved 
one  of  the  problems  of  existence  that  have  baffled 
more  serious  and  deeper  thinkers.  He  has  per- 
fectly adjusted  himself  to  his  environment,  and  his 

[94] 


OLD    SIPES 

life  is  complete  and  happy  within  it.  Even  his 
many  aversions  give  him  more  pleasure  than 
pain.  His  memories  afford  him  abundant  and 
pleasant  society,  and  he  is  able,  psychologically, 
to  import  his  friend  Bill  when  he  needs  him.  Be- 
yond these  things  he  apparently  has  no  desires. 
To  use  his  own  expression, — "the  great  an'  pow'r- 
ful  o'  the  earth  'as  got  nothin'  on  me." 

That  priceless  jewel,  contentment,  is  his,  and  the 
kindly  fates  could  do  little  more  for  one  who  wore 
a  crown. 


[95] 


, 


"jWy  Ciu" 


(From  the  Author's  Etching) 


HAPPY  CAL'S  SHAXTY 


CHAPTER  VI 

HAPPY    CAL 

ONE  of  the  nondescript  beach  characters 
bears,  or  did  bear,  the  somewhat  decep- 
tive sobriquet  of  "Happy  Cal."  His 
little  shanty  was  on  the  sand  about  two  hundred 
feet  from  the  lake.  The  grizzled  head,  the  gnarled 
rugged  hands,  the  sinewy  but  slightly  bent  figure, 
betokened  one  who  had  met  tempests  on  the  high- 
ways of  life.  The  deep  set  gray  eves  were  with- 
out luster,  although  they  occasionally  twinkled 
with  quiet  humor. 

The  slightly  retreating  chin,  which  could  be 
discerned  through  the  white  beard  when  his  pro- 
file was   against  the   light,   offered   a   key   to   the 

[q7] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

frailty  of  his  character.  The  power  of  combat 
was  not  there.  He  had  yielded  to  the  storms. 
He  said  they  called  him  "Happy  Cal"  because  he 
wasn't  happy  at  all. 

One  dreary  forenoon,  when  the  black  clouds 
piled  up  over  the  lake  in  the  northwest  and  the 
big  drops  began  to  come,  I  went  to  Cal's  shanty 
and  was  cordially  asked  to  put  my  sketching  out- 
fit behind  an  old  soap-box  back  of  the  door.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  he  had  acquired  this  soap- 
box when  it  was  empty.  A  long  cigar  and  the 
recollection  of  a  former  visit  put  him  at  his  ease. 

The  rain  increased,  and  the  breakers  began  to 
roar  on  the  beach.  The  wind  whistled  through 
the  crevices  in  the  side  of  the  shanty,  and  Cal 
went  out  to  stuff  them  with  some  strips  of  rotten 
canvas  that  he  had  probably  picked  up  along  the 
shore.  It  was  quite  characteristic  of  Cal  to  delay 
this  stuffing  until  stern  necessity  made  it  impera- 
tive. 

He  came  in  dripping  wet,  and  asked  if  I  hap- 
pened to  have  a  bottle  with  me.  The  stove  was 
a  metamorphosed  hot-water  tank.  The  rusty 
cylinder  had  been  found  somewhere  among  some 

[98] 


HAPPY    CAL 

junk  years  before.  He  had  made  an  opening  in 
the  front  for  the  wood,  a  hole  in  the  bottom  pro- 
vided for  the  draft  and  the  egress  of  the  ashes, 
and  a  stove  pipe,  that  had  seen  better  days,  led 
through  a  hole  in  the  irregular  roof. 

A  fire  was  soon  singing  in  the  cylinder,  and 
under  its  genial  warmth  Happy  Cal  became 
reminiscent. 

"I've  had  some  mighty  strange  experiences  since 
I've  bin  livin'  'ere,"  he  began.  "About  nine  years 
ago  they  was  a  shipwreck  out  'ere  that  raised  the 
devil  with  all  on  board  an'  with  me  too.  Nobody 
got  drownded,  but  it  would  'ave  bin  a  good  thing 
if  some  of  'em  had. 

"It  was  late  in  November  an'  nobody  'ad  any 
business  navigatin'  the  lake,  'less  they  'ad  to, 
'cause  when  it  gits  to  blowin'  out  'ere  at  that  time 
o'  year,  it  blows  without  any  trouble  at  all.  A  big 
gale  come  up  in  the  night  an'  the  breakers  was 
tearin'  away  at  a  great  rate,  an'  they  swashed  'most 
up  to  the  shanty.  I  was  settin'  up  in  the  bunk 
plavin'  sollytare,  an'  wonderin'  if  the  shanty  was 
goin'  to  git  busted  up,  when  I  thought  I  heard 
voices.     I  lit  my  lantern  an'  went  out  to  see  what 

[99] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

was  doin'  an'  I  saw  a  light  a  little  ways  out  an' 
heard  somebody  yellin'. 

"There  was  a  big  schooner  almost  on  the  shore. 
She  was  poundin'  up  an'  down  on  the  bottom  in 
about  five  feet  o'  water.  The  big  rollers  was  tak- 
in'  'er  up  an'  smashin'  'er  down  so  you  could  hear 
it  a  mile.  Pretty  soon  the  light  went  out  an'  after 
that  four  o'  the  wettest  fellers  y'  ever  seen  came 
pilin'  in  with  the  breakers.  I  grabbed  one  of  'em 
that  was  bein'  washed  back  agin',  an'  after  that  I 
got  another  one  that  seemed  to  be  pretty  near  dead. 
The  other  two  got  out  all  right  by  themselves, 
but  they  was  pretty  shaky.  They  helped  me  git 
the  others  up  to  the  shanty,  an'  they  was  a  sight 
o'  pity  when  we  got  'em  there. 

"I  put  some  more  wood  in  the  stove  an'  gave 
'em  all  some  whisky.  They  was  about  a  pint  left 
in  a  gallon  jug  that  I  got  about  a  week  before, 
with  some  money  I  got  fer  a  bunch  o'  rabbits. 
I  don't  drink  much,  but  I  like  to  keep  sumpen  in 
the  shanty  in  case  somebody  should  git  ship- 
wrecked, an'  it  might  be  me,  but  I  ain't  got  none 
now.     I  went  on  the  water  wagon  about  an  hour 

[100] 


HAPPY    CAL 

ago,  an'  I'm  afraid  I'm  goirT  to  fall  off  if  I  git 
a  chance. 

"Them  fellers  lapped  up  the  booze  like  it  was 
milk,  an'  when  they  found  they  wasn't  any  more 
they  got  mad  an'  said  I  was  runnin'  a  temperance 
joint.  Then  they  asked  me  sarcastic  if  I  had  any 
soft  drinks,  an'  I  told  'em  they'd  find  plenty  out- 
side. I  fried  'em  some  fish  an'  they  et  up  all 
the  crackers  I  had.  Then  one  of  'em  got  my  pipe 
an'  smoked  it. 

"They  were  a  tough  lot  an'  when  they  got  all 
dried  out  an'  fed  they  got  to  cussin1  each  other. 
I  told  'em  if  they  wanted  to  fight  to  git  out  fer 
I  didn't  want  no  scrappin'  in  the  shanty.  Then 
two  of  'em  clinched  an'  I  shoved  'em  out  doors. 
Then  the  others  went  out  an'  pitched  on  both  of 
'em.  After  that  they  all  piled  inside  agin'  an' 
over  went  the  stove.  In  a  few  minutes  the  place 
looked  like  it  'ad  bin  blowed  up.  We  got  the 
stove  up  after  a  while,  but  I  lit  out  up  the  ravine 
an'  stayed  there  pretty  near  the  rest  o'  the  night, 
waitin'  fer  a  calm  in  the  shanty.  Hell  was  pop- 
pin'  down  there  an'  ev'ry  minute  I  was  expectin' 
to  see  the  sides  fly  out. 

[101] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"  'Long  toward  mornin'  I  took  a  sneak  down  an' 
peeked  in.  Them  sailors  was  all  settin'  in  there 
quiet  as  lambs,  playin'  cards  with  my  deck  an' 
usin'  all  my  matches  fer  chips.  I  opened  the  door 
an'  spoke  pleasant  like  to  'em  but  they  told  me  to 
git  out  fer  the  place  'ad  changed  hands.  After 
a  while,  when  they  found  they  couldn't  make 
the  stove  work,  they  let  me  in  an'  we  had  some 
coffee." 

There  are  some  visitors  who  make  calls,  others 
who  come  and  visit,  and  still  others  who  make 
visitations.  It  was  not  difficult  to  classify  Cal's 
guests  as  he  proceeded  with  his  story. 

"It  seems  that  them  devils,"  continued  Cal, 
"had  started  down  the  lake  with  a  load  o'  slabs 
an'  some  lumber  from  one  o'  the  saw  mills  up 
north.  One  of  'em's  name  was  Burke,  an'  'e  got 
to  scrappin'  with  the  cap'n,  a  feller  named  Swan- 
son,  about  the  grub  they  had  on  board.  The  other 
two  butted  in  an'  said  they  wasn't  goin'  to  eat 
no  more  beans,  an'  the  feller  at  the  wheel  headed 
the  vessel — the  Mud  Hen  'er  name  was — straight 
fer  the  coast,  an'  swore  'e'd  hold  'er  there  'till  the 
cap'n  'ud  tell  where  some  canned  things  was  that 

[102] 


HAPPY    CAL 

'e  knew  'e  had  on  board  hid,  an'  a'  big  jug  that 
they  seen  'im  put  on  the  night  before  they 
sailed.  They  was  about  a  mile  off  shore  when  the 
wind  struck  'em,  an'  one  o'  the  wheel  ropes  busted, 
an'  before  they  could  git  things  fixed  up  they 
blowed  in. 

"They  was  all  sore  at  the  cap'n  an'  the  cap'n  an' 
the  other  two  was  sore  at  the  feller  at  the  wheel, 
an'  'e  was  sore  at  the  whole  bunch  fer  cussin'  'im, 
an'  so  when  they  all  got  soaked  it  didn't  help 
things  any,  an'  when  they  got  dried  out  they  begun 
beatin'  each  other  up. 

"Olson,  the  one  that  'ad  bin  pretty  near 
drownded,  couldn't  talk  much  English,  but  him 
an'  me  sort  o'  took  to  each  other  after  a  couple  o' 
days,  an'  'e  told  me  all  about  the  doin's  on  the 
boat. 

"Swanson  an'  Burke  took  my  gun  an'  went  over 
in  the  back  country  an'  shot  some  tame  ducks  an' 
brought  'em  back  to  the  shanty  an'  wanted  me  to 
fix  'em  up  to  cook.  When  I  was  pickin'  'em  on 
the  beach  the  owners  come  over.  They'd  heard 
the  shots  an'  they  found  some  tracks  an'  seen  where 
they  was  some  feathers.     I  told  'em  I  didn't  have 

[103] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

nothin'  to  do  with  it,  but  as  I  was  settin'  there 
undressin'  the  fowls  they  seemed  to  think  I  had, 
an'  I  had  a  lot  o'  trouble  fixin'  things  up. 

"All  this  time  the  ol'  boat  was  layin'  in  the 
shallow  water  keeled  over  sideways,  an'  badly 
busted  up.  We  climbed  into  'er  an'  got  out  a  lot 
o'  stuff,  an'  that  bunch  was  mighty  glad  to  git 
the  beans,  an'  so  was  I.  We  found  the  cap'n's 
jug  an'  the  cans,  an'  that  night  things  broke  loose 
agin,  an'  they  all  went  on  a  bat.  They  went  the 
limit  an'  acted  like  a  lot  o'  wild  Indians.  I  poured 
about  a  quart  out  o'  the  jug  into  a  bottle  an'  hid 
it  in  some  bushes,  but  they  got  to  that,  too.  I  told 
'em  I  was  just  tryin'  to  save  it  fer  'em  till  the  next 
day,  but  they  got  sore  about  it.  They  only  let  me 
have  two  drinks  from  the  whole  jug. 

"The  next  night  they  set  the  ol'  wreck  afire  an' 
lit  out.  What  they  done  that  fer  I  can't  make  out. 
After  she  burnt  down  to  the  water,  some  big  comb- 
ers washed  'er  up  on  the  beach  one  night  an'  you 
can  see  what's  left  of  'er  stickin'  up  out  there  yet. 
They  was  a  lot  o'  good  stuff  in  that  boat  fer  a  nice 
new  big  cabin  fer  me,  an'  I  felt  awful  bad  about 
it.     I  saw  the  tracks  of  two  of  'em  goin'  up  the 

[104] 


:ig&-' 


iticWrecK, 


'f^Su 


lew 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

beach,  an'  the  others  'ad  gone  off  in  the  hills,  an' 
I  guess  they'd  'ad  another  row.  They  carried  off 
my  gun  an'  my  cards,  an'  I  never  want  to  see  a 
bunch  o'  lunatics  like  that  agin.  I'd  as  leave  take 
in  a  lot  o'  mad  dogs  as  I  would  them  geezers.  I 
wish  that  dam'  Swede  at  the  wheel  'ad  headed  'is 
ol'  tub  som'eres  else,  'er  sunk  'er  out  in  the  middle 
'o  the  lake,  instid  o'  shootin'  'er  in  'ere  an'  fussin' 
me  all  up.  Them  fellers'll  be  about  as  pop'lar  as 
a  skunk  if  they  ever  come  'round  'ere  agin." 

The  remains  of  the  poor  old  "Mud  Hen"  were 
visible  about  half  a  mile  down  the  coast.  Her 
charred  and  broken  ribs  protruded  from  the  sands 
that  had  buried  her  keel,  seemingly  in  mute  pro- 
test against  final  oblivion.  The  fate  that  evil  com- 
pany brings  was  hers,  but  her  refuge  is  now  secure. 

Happy  Cal  had  been  born  and  educated  in 
a  southern  city.  At  twenty  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  dark-haired,  beautiful,  and  softly  languor- 
ous creature,  with  dreamy  eyes,  whose  faded  and 
worn  photograph  he  produced  after  a  long  search 
through  the  leaves  of  an  old  and  very  dirty  book. 
The  book,  which  he  also  showed  me,  was  rather 
anarchistic    in    character,    and    its    well-thumbed 

[106] 


HAPPY    CAL 

pages  may  have  considerably  influenced  Cal's  lack 
of  faith  in  things  in  general. 

After  the  exchange  of  fervent  mutual  vows,  he 
had  shouldered  a  musket  and  answered  the  call 
of  the  cause  that  was  lost  on  the  battlefields  of  the 
sixties. 

After  many  vicissitudes  and  many  months  of 
suffering  and  hardship,  poor  Cal,  in  a  tattered  uni- 
form, found  his  way  back  through  the  mountains 
to  the  altar  on  which  he  had  laid  his  heart.  He 
found  the  raven  tresses  on  the  shoulder  of  another, 
and  retreated  into  the  soul  darkness  from  which  he 
never  emerged.  He  was  only  partially  conscious 
of  the  weary  miles  and  aimless  wanderings  that 
eventually  took  him  into  the  silence  and  isolation 
of  the  sand  hills,  where  he  elected  to  abide  in 
secrecy. 

The  golden  chalice  had  been  dashed  from  his 
lips — he  had  drunk  of  bitter  waters.  His  star  had 
fallen,  and,  like  a  wounded  animal,  he  had  sought 
the  solitudes,  beyond  the  arrows  that  had  torn  him. 

The  sad,  lonely  years  in  the  little  driftwood 
hut  had  benumbed  the  cruel  memories,  but  the 
problems  of  existence  brought  only  partial  forget- 

[107] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

fulness.  Under  the  cold  northern  stars  and  during 
the  winter  storms,  his  seared  and  tortured  soul 
strove  for  peace,  but  it  came  not. 

His  sole  companion  in  his  exile  was  a  big  gray 
and  white  dog.  He  had  found  the  poor,  half- 
starved,  stray  creature  prowling  around  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  the  hut  one  night,  and  had  taken  him  in. 
Community  of  interest  had  caused  these  two  atoms 
to  coalesce.  The  dog's  name  was  Pete,  and  it  was 
Pete  who  was  the  indirect  and  innocent  cause  of 
Cal's  final  awakening  to  what  he  considered  a  sad 
reality  a  year  or  two  later. 

Pete  got  in  contact  with  a  voracious  bulldog, 
that  came  from  somewhere  over  in  the  back  coun- 
try; and  in  the  final  analysis — in  which  the  two 
animals  participated — Pete  was  left  in  a  badly 
mangled  condition. 

Cal  found  him,  and  happening  to  be  near  the 
shanty  of  a  neighbor,  several  miles  from  his  own 
shack,  carried  the  unfortunate  Pete  tenderly  to 
shelter. 

It  was  through  this  neighbor,  another  hermit, 
with  another  history,  that  Cal  got  interested  in  a 
pile  of  old  newspapers  and  magazines  which  had 

[108] 


HAPPY    CAL 

been  procured  in  some  way  by  this  isolated  tenant 
of  the  sands,  who  still  maintained  a  lagging  in- 
terest in  the  affairs  of  the  outside  world. 

During  Pete's  convalescence,  Cal  found  in  one 


of  these  old  papers  an  account  of  a  women's  rights 
meeting  in  his  native  city,  in  which  his  former 
ideal  of  beauty  and  loveliness  had  taken  a  promi- 
nent part. 

Her  picture  was  in  the  paper  and  Cal  was  dis- 

[109] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

illusioned.  The  finger  of  time  had  touched  the 
love  of  his  youth  and  she  was  ugly.  The  tender 
blossom  of  nineteen  was  a  cactus  at  fifty.    To  use 


iif;-»' 


v\   CcukxZ 


\ 


O^priu    * 


his  own  phrase — "she  looked  like  the  breakin'  up 
of  a  hard  winter."  In  addition  to  the  picture,  the 
report  of  the  proceedings,  during  which  his  for- 
mer affinity  had  violently  attacked  what  Cal  con- 
sidered were  the  sacred  prerogatives  of  the  male 

[110] 


HAPPY    CAL 

sex,  extinguished  the  last  lingering  fond  impres- 
sion, and  the  lovely  vision  vanished. 

He  did  not  believe  that  women  had  sufficient  in- 
telligence to  vote,  and  the  idea  of  their  taking  part 
in  sage  political  councils  was  repugnant  to  him. 
While  he  did  not  vote  himself,  he  said  that  there 
"was  plenty  o'  men  to  'tend  to  them  things,  an' 
its  foolish  to  allow  women  to  git  mixed  up  in  the 
govament." 

This  wise  and  smug  anti-suffragist  thought  that 
the  female  sex  "should  be  allowed  to  meet,  if  they 
want  to,  but  they  hadn't  ought  a  butt  in  on  things 
that  require  superior  intelligence." 

The  newspaper  cut  had  done  its  awful  work  on 
Cal,  and  women's  rights  had  completed  the  de- 
molition of  an  ideal  that  had  been  cherished 
through  the  years.  His  idol  had  crumbled  and 
turned  to  ashes,  and  his  dog  was  now  the  only  live 
thing  that  he  considered  worthy  of  affection. 

The  story  had  in  it  much  pathos,  but  inter- 
spersed through  it  was  a  great  deal  of  picturesque 
profanity,  particularly  in  connection  with  the  idea 
of  women  casting  votes,  which  had  aroused  the 
dormant  passions  of  his  nature. 

[Ill] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  storm  was  over.  I  left  him  a  small  supply 
of  tobacco,  promised  to  drop  in  again,  and  bade 
him  good-bye. 

Several  days  later,  in  talking  with  Sipes,  I  hap- 
pened to  mention  Cal's  sad  life  history.  He 
laughed  and  said  that  Cal  was  a  liar. 

"The  real  facts  is  'e  lived  over  in  the  back  coun- 
try fer  twenty  years,  an'  'e  was  chased  into  the 
hills  by  'is  wife  an'  mother-in-law  fer  good  an' 
sufficient  reasons.  He  handed  me  all  that  dope 
oncet  about  some  girl  'e  was  stuck  on  some'res  down 
south.  It's  all  right  fer  an  old  cuss  like  'im  to 
set  'round  an'  talk,  but  'e  was  just  'avin'  dizzy 
dreams,  an'  you  fergit  'em.  If  'e'd  only  tell  the 
truth,  the  way  I  always  do,  'e  wouldn't  never  have 
no  trouble,  an'  folks  would  'ave  some  respect  fer 
'im,  like  they  do  fer  me." 

A  year  elapsed  before  I  again  saw  the  little 
shanty.  The  drifting  sands  had  partially  covered 
it,  and  my  knock  was  unanswered.  Several  boards 
were  missing  from  the  roof,  and  through  a  wide 
crack  I  saw  that  occupation  had  ceased.    The  bunk 

[112] 


HAPPY    CAL 

was  covered  with  debris.  There  were  some  empty 
cans  on  the  floor  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  few 
bottles,  but  Happy  Cal  was  gone. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  wave  of  fortune  or  mis- 
fortune that  took  this  poor  piece  of  human  drift- 
wood on  its  crest  carried  him  to  some  far-off,  sun- 
kissed,  and  glorious  shore,  where  there  is  no  po- 
litical equality,  and  where  women  have  no  rights. 

Either  he  had  spent  a  most  pathetic  and  adven- 
turous life,  or  he  was  one  of  the  most  delightful 
liars  I  ever  listened  to. 


[113] 


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. 


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CflTRSM  "D©Htf 


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G 


CHAPTER    VII 

CATFISH    JOHN 

|ATFISH  JOHN"  lived  several  miles 
farther  up  the  shore.  He  was  nearly 
eighty — at  least,  so  he  thought.  Rheu- 
matism had  interfered  with  his  activities  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  and  his  net  reels  on  the  beach 
were  getting  a  little  harder  to  turn  as  the  years 
rolled  on.  He  considered  the  invasion  of  the  dune 
country  by  the  newcomers  a  great  misfortune,  al- 

[115] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

though  he  was  perfectly  content  to  deal  with  them 
in  a  business  way. 

"Fifty  years  ago,  when  I  fust  come  'ere,"  he 
said,  "this  country  was  sumpen  to  live  in.  There 
was  some  o'  the  Injuns  'ere,  but  they  didn't  never 
bother  nobody.  Thar  was  lots  o'  game,  an'  things 
'round  'ere  was  pretty  wild." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  come  here,  John?" 
I  asked. 

"I  come  from  down  East  on  the  Erie  Canal,  an' 
I  traveled  out  'ere  to  see  some  land  a  feller  was 
tryin'  to  sell  that  'e  showed  me  on  some  maps  'e 
had.  He  said  it  was  pretty  wet,  but  it  had  thou- 
sands o'  huckleberry  bushes  on  it,  an'  the  berries 
grew  so  thick  the  bushes  all  bent  over  with  'em. 

"I  didn't  'ave  much  money,  an'  I  didn't  expect 
to  pay  much  out,  but  I  thought  I'd  come  out  an' 
take  a  look  at  it.  I  didn't  see  no  huckleberries, 
but  it  was  wet  sure  'nough.  If  I'd  'a'  gone  on  it  I'd 
'a'  had  to  gone  in  a  boat  an'  feel  fer  the  land  with  a 
pole,  an'  if  I'd  wanted  to  live  on  it,  I'd  'a'  had  to 
growed  some  fins.  It  was  a  good  thing  fer  that 
feller  that  he  didn't  git  that  thar  land  onto  me 
afore  I'd  seen  it. 

[H6] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

"After  I'd  bin  'round  'ere  fer  a  while,  I  built 
a  cabin  over  on  the  river,  five  miles  back  o'  here. 
I  got  some  slabs  from  the  lumber  comp'ny  that 
was  skinnin'  out  the  pine  an'  robbin'  the  guvament, 
ai"f  put  up  a  good  house.  I  stayed  thar  'bout  ten 
years,  I  guess. 

"One  night  somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  I 
opened  it,  an'  thar  stood  three  fellers.  I  asked  'em 
in,  an'  we  smoked  an'  talked  fer  awhile,  an'  I 
cooked  'em  some  pork.  I  had  about  fifty  pounds 
outside  in  a  bar'l,  with  a  cover  an'  a  stone  on  it. 

"In  the  mornin'  them  fellers  wanted  to  go  fishin'. 
We  went  up  the  river  a  ways,  an'  chopped  some 
holes  in  the  ice,  an'  caught  a  lot  o'  pick'rel.  We 
took  'em  to  the  cabin  an'  put  'em  on  the  roof  to 
keep  'em  away  from  the  varmints.  In  the  mornin' 
I  got  up,  an'  all  that  pork  an'  them  fish  was  gone, 
an'  so  was  them  fellers.  It's  bin  forty  years  that 
I've  bin  watchin'  now,  an'  I  haint  never  seen  them 
fellers  since." 

John  then  relapsed  into  a  reflective  silence,  and 
shifted  his  quid  of  "natural  leaf,"  that  was  filter- 
ing down  through  his  unkempt  whiskers.  "Them 
fellers"  were  preying  on  his  vindictive  mind. 

[H7] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"What  do  you  do  with  them  pitchers  you  make?" 
he  asked. 

"I  just  make  them  for  fun." 

"I  don't  see  no  fun  makin'  them  things.  Thar 
was  a  feller  along  'ere  in  the  spring  that  used  to 
set  under  an  umbreller,  when  it  wasn't  rainin'. 
He  painted  a  pitcher  o'  me,  an'  then  took  it  away 
with  'im.  It  had  a  lot  o'  paint  on  it,  an'  it  was 
all  rough.     I  don't  think  'e  amounted  to  much." 

"Did  it  look  like  you,  John?" 

"I  s'pose  it  did  to  him;  'e  carried  it  off." 

John  knew  most  of  the  outcasts  along  the  beach 
for  many  miles.  He  occasionally  visited  some  of 
them,  particularly  Sipes,  to  obtain  extra  supplies 
of  fish,  with  an  old  gray  horse  and  a  dilapidated 
buggy  frame — both  of  which  were  also  rheumatic. 
On  the  wheels  back  of  the  seat  he  had  mounted  a 
big  covered  box  for  the  fish,  which  he  peddled 
over  into  the  back  country.  Some  of  the  fish  were 
very  dead,  and  the  whole  box  was  replete  with 
mystery  and  suspicion. 

"After  the  second  day,"  he  said,  "I  sometimes 
give  'way  them  I  haint  sold."  Even  at  this  price, 
some  of  them  were  probably  quite  expensive. 

[118] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

Snuggled  up  against  the  bluff,  near  the  shanty 
he  lived  in,  was  an  odd-looking  little  structure  that 
John  used  for  a  smoke-house.  When  his  fish  be- 
came a  little  too  passe  to  permit  of  ready  sales,  or, 


THE  LITTLE  SMOKE  HOUSE 

as  he  expressed  it,  "too  soft,"  he  smoked  them. 
Thus  disguised,  they  were  again  ready  for  the 
channels  of  commerce. 

He  generally  included  some  smoked  fish  in  his 

[119] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

load  when  he  started  out,  and  usually  it  was  not 
their  first  trip. 

While  his  thrift  was  commendable,  it  was  al- 
ways best  to  let  the  output  of  that  little  smoke- 
house severely  alone,  for  its  roof,  like  charity,  cov- 
ered a  multitude  of  sins. 

Sipes  declared  that  he  always  knew  when  the 
old  man  "was  gittin'  ready  to  smoke  fish,  if  the 
wind  was  right." 

His  nickname  had  been  acquired  because  of  the 
yellow  slimy  things  which  he  procured  from  the 
sluggish  river,  when  the  storms  prevented  supplies 
from  the  lake.  A  prodigious  haul  of  catfish  was 
made  from  the  river  one  spring  by  a  settler,  who 
turned'  the  catch  over  to  John  to  peddle  on  shares. 

"I  loaded  up  them  fish,  an'  I  peddled  'em  clear 
to  the  Indianny  line.  I  was  gone  a  week,  an'  I  sold 
'em  all.  When  I  got  back  that  feller  said  'e  hadn't 
never  seen  no  fish  peddled  like  them  was." 

I  tried  to  get  him  to  talk  about  some  of  the  char- 
acters he  had  met  in  his  travels,  but  he  said  he 
"didn't  never  ask  no  questions  of  nobody."  Then, 
after  a  long  silence,  he  remarked,  reflectively,  "I 

[120] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

guess  them  fellers  that  stole  the  pork  prorVly  left 
the  country." 

Catfish  John  apparently  relied  on  the  heavenly 
rains,  when  he  got  caught  in  them,  to  keep  him 


I 

JOHN'S  METHOD  OF  TAKING  A  BATH 

clean,  and  on  the  golden  sunshine  that  followed 
them  to  remove  the  traces  of  these  involuntary  and 
infrequent  ablutions. 

I  doubt  if  he  suspected  the  existence  of  soap. 

[121  ] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Such  cleanliness  as  he  possessed  must  have  been  in 
his  heart,  for  it  was  invisible. 

I  once  asked  John  to  allow  me  to  spend  a  day 
with  him  on  one  of  his  peddling  trips  to  the  vil- 
lage, and  he  cheerfully  consented. 

"I  don't  git  lonesome,  but  it  'ud  be  nice  to  have 
somebody  'long,"  he  said. 

I  was  to  meet  him  at  five  o'clock  the  following 
morning  at  Sipes's  place.  I  inwardly  rebelled  at 
the  unseemly  hour,  but  those  who  would  derive 
the  full  measure  of  enjoyment  with  Catfish  John 
must  not  be  particular  about  hours. 

I  rowed  along  the  shore,  and  was  at  the  trysting 
place  promptly.  Fortunately  I  had  a  slight  cold, 
and  was  thereby  better  enabled  to  resist  some  of 
the  odors  that  I  was  likely  to  encounter  during 
the  day. 

Sipes  was  dumfounded  when  I  explained  the 
object  of  the  early  visit. 

"You  cert'nly  must  be  lookin'  fer  trouble,"  he 
declared;  "if  ye  want  to  spend  a  day  like  that, 
why  don't  ye  go  over  an'  set  quiet  'round  'is  smoke- 
house, instid  o'  bein'  bumped  along  on  'is  honey 
cart  all  day?" 

[122] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

The  air  was  still,  and  the  low,  gentle  swells  out 
on  the  water  were  opalescent  in  the  early  morning 
light.  Sipes  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  his 
set-lines  and  gill-nets,  over  a  mile  away  in  the  lake. 
He  had  started  about  two  o'clock,  and  his  boat  on 
the  beach  contained  the  slimy  merchandise  which 
we  were  to  convert  into  what  Sipes  called  "cash- 
money"  during  the  day. 

We  went  down  to  the  shore  to  inspect  the  catch. 
Numerous  flopping  tails  and  other  unavailing  pro- 
tests against  uncongenial  environment  were  evi- 
dent in  the  boat.  There  were  fifteen  or  twenty 
whitefish,  about  a  dozen  carp,  several  suckers,  and 
a  lot  of  good-sized  perch,  which  had  been  found  in 
the  gill-nets.  The  set-lines  had  yielded  two  stur- 
geon, one  weighing  about  thirty-five  pounds  and 
the  other  over  fifty.  These  two  finny  victims  dom- 
inated the  boat. 

"I  swatted  'em  when  I  took  'em  in,  but  they 
seem  to  be  gittin'  gay  agin,"  remarked  Sipes,  as  he 
reached  for  an  old  axe  handle  lying  near  the  bow. 
The  struggling  fish  soon  became  quiet. 

"There  comes  ver  old  college  friend,"  he  said, 
as  he  glanced  up  the  beach.    The  rheumatic  horse 

[123] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

was  patiently  pulling  the  odd  vehicle  along  the 
shore,  near  the  water  line  where  the  sand  was  firm, 
partially  concealing  the  bent  figure  with  the  faded 
slouch  hat  on  the  seat  behind  him. 

"I'd  know  that  ol'  hat  if  I  seen  it  at  the  South 
Pole,"  said  Sipes.  "It  turns  up  in  front  an'  flops 
down  behind.  It's  got  some  little  holes  in  the 
top,  through  which  some  wind  blows  when  'e's 
wearin'  it.  He's  'ad  it  ever  since  I  come  on  the 
beach,  an'  that  wasn't  yisterd'y,  neither,  an'  they 
ain't  no  other  lid  that  'ud  look  right  on  John,  an' 
they  ain't  nobody  else  that  'ud  wear  it  fer  a  min- 
ute. He  needn't  never  be  'fraid  that  anybody's 
goin'  to  swipe  it,  'specially  'round  'ere." 

After  the  conventional  greetings,  flavored  with 
much  bantering  and  playful  innuendoes  by  Sipes 
concerning  the  disreputable  society  which  some 
nice  fresh  fish  were  about  to  get  into,  the  two  wor- 
thies weighed  the  catch,  in  installments,  on  some 
steelyards  with  a  tin  pan  attachment,  wThich  were 
kept  in  the  shanty.  Sipes  made  a  memorandum 
with  a  stubby  pencil  on  the  inside  of  the  door, 
where  his  accounts  were  kept.  "I  got  so  dam'  many 
things  to  think  of  that  I  can't  keep  track  of  'em 

[124] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

'less  I  jot  'em  down,"  he  remarked,  as  he  slowly 
and  laboriously  inscribed  some  figures  on  the 
rough  board. 

John  had  a  few  fish  in  his  box  that  he  had  found 
in  his  own  nets  that  morning,  and  a  few  more  that 
Sipes  said  "didn't  look  recent"  and  "must  'ave 
bin  caught  some  time  previous." 

The  fish  that  Sipes  had  brought  in  were  turned 
over  to  John  on  a  consignment  basis.  It  was  their 
custom  to  divide  the  proceeds  equally.  Sipes  con- 
sidered that  old  John  was  "pufectly  honest  about 
everythin'  but  cash-money  an'  fish."  He  therefore 
kept  "strict  'count  o'  wot  goes  out  an'  wot  comes 
back."  The  inside  of  the  door  was  covered  with 
a  maze  of  hieroglyphics,  the  complicated  records 
of  previous  transactions. 

"If  I  wasn't  strictly  honest  at  all  times,"  said 
Sipes,  confidentially,  while  John  was  out  of  hear- 
ing, "I'd  slip  some  hunks  o'  lead  that  I  use  fer 
sinkers  on  the  set-lines  down  the  gullets  o'  them 
sturgeon.  I  can  git  lead  fer  six  cents  a  pound  an' 
sturgeon  is  worth  twenty.  If  anybody  found  the 
hunks  they'd  think  they'd  bin  eat  offen  the  lines, 
but  of  course  I  wouldn't  do  nothin'  like  that;  an' 

[125] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

besides,  them  big  fish  has  to  be  dressed  'fore 
they're  weighed,  an'  they  'ave  to  be  cut  in  chunks 
fer  small  sales.  A  sturgeon  that  only  weighs  about 
six  or  seven  pounds  an'  don't  'ave  to  be  cut  open 
'fore  'e's  sold,  can  swallow  a  couple  o'  sinkers 
without  hurtin'  'is  digestion  any." 

After  all  necessary  details  had  been  attended  to, 
we  climbed  into  the  seat  and  started.  Sipes  winked 
at  me  impressively,  and  his  last  words  were,  "Don't 
you  fellers  take  in  no  bad  money." 

Pie  had  several  ways  of  opening  and  closing  his 
single  eye,  which  were  very  different  from  wink- 
ing it  naturally.  He  would  wink  with  the  whole 
side  of  his  face,  thereby  conveying  various  subtle 
meanings  which  words  could  not  express. 

As  we  departed,  the  old  man,  with  a  final  wave 
of  his  hand,  disappeared  into  his  shanty  to  prepare 
his  breakfast.  John  had  brought  him  a  few  fresh 
eggs,  and  Sipes  hoped  that  "they  wouldn't  hatch 
'fore  they  got  to  the  kittle." 

The  poor  old  horse  had  rather  a  hard  time  pull- 
ing the  additional  burden  through  the  sand.  This 
interesting  animal  was  quite  a  character.  He  was 
somewhere  in  the  early  twenties,  and  his  name  was 

[126] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

"Napoleon."  John  had  bought  him  from  a  far- 
mer for  ten  dollars.  The  horse  was  sick  and  not 
expected  to  live,  but  it  transpired  that  what  he 
really  needed  was  a  long  rest.  This  he  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  getting  when  John  came  to  look  at 
him. 


WM 


r*      it 


• 


The  old  fisherman  built  a  little  shanty  for  him, 
put  a  lot  of  dead  leaves  and  straw  into  it,  fed  him 
well,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  the  patient 
began  to  evince  an  interest  in  his  surroundings. 
"Doc"  Looney  came  over  to  see  him  and  volun- 


[127  j 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

teered  to  prescribe,  but  John  refused  to  permit 
Doc  to  give  anything  but  an  opinion.  Sipes 
claimed  that  John  had  thereby  greatly  safeguarded 
the  original  investment. 

"If  Doc  wouldn't  give  patients  nothin'  but  opin- 
ions, most  of  'em  would  pull  through,  but  'is  opin- 
ions'll  make  me  sick  even  when  I'm  well,"  Sipes 
declared. 

Napoleon  was  finally  able  to  get  into  the  har- 
ness that  was  constructed  for  him  out  of  various 
straps  and  odds  and  ends  of  other  harnesses  that 
John  had  picked  up  around  the  country.  Several 
pieces  of  rope  and  frayed  clothes-line  were  also 
utilized,  and  when  it  was  all  assembled  it  was 
quite  an  effective  harness. 

The  convalescent  was  taken  only  on  short  trips 
at  first,  but  he  gradually  became  stronger,  and, 
with  the  exception  of  a  limp  in  his  left  foreleg, 
he  got  along  very  well.  His  speed  was  not  great. 
He  walked  most  of  the  time,  but  occasionally 
broke  into  a  peculiar  trot  that  was  not  quite  as  fast 
as  his  walk.  His  trotting  was  mostly  up  and  down. 
Like  many  people,  whom  we  all  know,  he  was  in- 
clined to  mistake  motion  for  progress.     He  was 

[128] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

more  successful  when  he  recognized  his  limita- 
tions, and  adhered  strictly  to  the  method  of  loco- 
motion to  which  he  was  naturally  adapted. 

His  intelligence  might  be  called  selective.  He 
understood  "Whoa!"  perfectly,  and  obeyed  it  in- 
stantly, but  "Giddap!"  was  not  quite  so  clear  to 
him.  He  could  not  talk  about  his  rheumatic  leg, 
and  thus  suffered  from  one  great  disadvantage  that 
made  him  more  agreeable  to  those  around  him. 

I  asked  John  how  the  horse  happened  to  be 
called  Napoleon,  but  he  did  not  know.  He  was 
equally  ignorant  concerning  the  animal's  eminent 
blood-stained  namesake.  He  thought  he  "was 
some  flghtin'  feller  in  Europe,"  but  did  not  know 
"which  side  'e  was  on." 

The  world  execrates  its  petty  criminals,  and  im- 
mortalizes its  great  malefactors.  As  Napoleon,  for 
selfish  ends,  caused  the  destruction  of  countless 
lives,  instead  of  one,  his  glory  should  reach  even 
unto  Catfish  John. 

If  the  poor  little  horse  had  been  called  "Rem- 
brandt" or  "Shakespeare,"  the  name  would  have 
been  just  as  heavy  for  him  to  bear,  but  it  would 
suggest  good  instead  of  evil  to  enlightened  minds. 

[129] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

He  was,  however,  oblivious  to  all  these  things,  and 
went  on  his  humble  way,  thinking  probably  only 
of  his  oats  and  the  queer  smells  that  emanated 
from  the  fish-box. 

We  proceeded  about  half  a  mile  along  the  shore, 
and  took  the  road  that  led  through  the  sand  hills 
into  the  back  country.  When  we  got  to  the  marshy 
strip,  we  bumped  along  over  the  corduroy  for 
quite  a  distance,  but  the  road  became  better  when 
we  got  to  higher  ground.  As  soon  as  we  arrived 
on  firm  soil,  Napoleon  stopped.  A  fat  man 
with  a  green  basket  was  advancing  hurriedly  along 
the  edge  of  the  thin  timber,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  and  the  horse  probably  surmised  that 
his  coming  was  in  some  way  connected  with  a 
rest. 

The  fat  man  was  a  picturesque  figure,  and  we 
watched  his  progress  with  interest.  His  embon- 
point was  rendered  more  conspicuous  by  the  legs 
of  his  breeches,  which  were  about  twice  as  large 
and  not  as  long  as  appeared  to  be  necessary.  The 
wide  ends  flapped  to  and  fro  about  nine  inches 
above  his  feet  as  he  ambled  along.  The  garment 
was  ridiculous  simply  because  it  did  not  happen 

[  130  ] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

to  be  "in  style"  at  the  time.  A  faint  and  mys- 
terious whisper  from  the  unknown  gods  who 
dictate  the  absurdities  in  human  attire  would  im- 
mediately invest  its  masses  and  contours  with  ele- 
gance and  propriety,  and  those  we  now  wear  would 
appear  as  outrageous,  artistically,  as  they  really 
are.  The  freaks  of  vanity  are  the  mockeries  of 
art. 

"Them  are  high-water  pants  all  right,  an'  some 
day  I'm  goin'  to  have  some  like  'em,"  remarked 
John. 

It  might  be  suggested  that  "trousers"  are 
breeches  which  are  in  style,  and  "pants"  are  those 
which  are  not.  Gentlemen  wear  trousers  and 
"gents"  wear  "pants." 

"That  of  feller  lives  in  that  brown  house  over 
in  the  clearin'  yonder,"  said  John.  "His  name  is 
Dan'l  Smith.  He's  got  two  sons,  an'  them  an'  'is 
wife  do  all  the  wTork  now,  an'  'e's  got  fat  settin' 
'round  an'  eatin'  everythin'  in  sight.  He  trots  over 
'ere  when  'e  sees  me  comin'  an'  gits  fish.  He's 
partic'lar  'bout  'em  bein'  fresh,  an'  'e  likes  to  git 
'em  when  I  first  start  out.  He's  a  good  customer, 
but  'e  owes  me  a  lot  o'  money.     He  says  'e's  got 

[131] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

some  money  comin'  from  a  patent  he's  inventing 
an'  I'll  have  to  wait  awhile.  This  patent's  to  keep 
flies  offen  cows  when  they're  bein'  milked,  but  I 
ain't  never  seen  it  work.  He  drawed  it  all  out  on 
some  paper  oncet,  to  show  me,  but  I  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  patents,  an'  I  couldn't  see  just  how 
it  went.  It's  some  kind  o'  thing  with  little  oars 
on  it  that  'e  winds  up  an'  fastens  on  'em,  an'  then 
it  goes  'round  an'  'round.  The  little  oars  are  all 
sticky  with  some  goo  'e  puts  on  'em,  an'  the  flies 
that  don't  go  'way,  when  the  little  oars  come 
'round,  git  stuck  on  'em,  an'  can't  git  off.  The 
contraption's  got  some  guide  sticks  on  behind,  an' 
when  the  cows  switch  their  tails,  they  have  to 
switch  'em  back'ards  an'  forrads,  instid  o'  side- 
ways. There's  some  parts  of  it  that  'e's  keepin' 
secret,  so's  none  o'  them  fellers  down  to  the  store'll 
git  the  patent  fust." 

"Good  mornin',  Dan'l!"  said  John  cheerily,  as 
the  fat  man  came  up,  much  out  of  breath;  "did 
ye  have  a  hard  time  gittin'  through?" 

"I  got  through  all  right,  but  it's  a  good  ways 
over  'ere  from  the  house,  an'  I  ain't  as  frisky  as  I 
was  oncet,  an'  I'm  'fraid  I'm  gittin'  a  little  rheu- 

[132] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

maticks  in  my  legs.  Wotcher  got  in  th'  box  to- 
day?" 

Old  John  patiently  sorted  over  the  fish  for  in- 
spection. The  fat  man  selected  four,  which  he 
carefully  put  in  his  green  basket,  and  covered  with 
leaves.  He  then  waddled  away  with  them  and  we 
drove  on. 

"I  don't  never  keep  no  'counts,"  said  John,  "but 
Dan'l's  got  all  them  fish  marked  down  som'ers, 
that  'e's  got  from  me,  an'  keeps  track  of  'em. 
When  'e  gits  'is  money  fer  'is  patent  'e's  goin'  to 
fix  it  all  up.  Sipes  says  we  can  git  slews  o'  them 
kind  o'  customers,  an'  'e  wants  me  to  quit  givin' 
'im  fish  er  else  feed  'im  on  smoked  ones  fer  awhile. 
He  says  if  we  try  to  fat  up  all  the  fellers  we  meet 
on  the  road,  the  fish'll  all  be  gone  out  o'  the  lake 
'fore  we're  through,  an'  'e  don't  want  to  be  in 
on  it." 

While  Napoleon  and  I  may  have  regarded  the 
fat  man  and  the  green  basket  with  some  suspicion, 
John's  faith  seemed  secure. 

We  approached  a  weather-beaten  house  stand- 
ing near  the  road.  A  middle-aged  woman  in  a 
gingham  dress  and  brown  shawl  stood  near  the 

[133] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

fence.  The  nondescript  rig  had  been  seen  coming. 
Travelers  on  the  road  in  the  back  country  are  so 
rare  that  a  passing  vehicle  is  an  event;  it  is  al- 
ways observed,  and  its  mission  thoroughly  under- 
stood, if  possible.  In  no  case  during  the  day  were 
we  compelled  to  announce  our  arrival. 

"Got  any  live  ones  this  mornin',  John?"  she 
asked. 

"Anythin'  ye  like,"  he  replied,  as  he  raised  the 
lid  of  the  box.  A  bargain  was  soon  struck,  and 
actual  commerce  had  commenced.  John  put 
eighteen  cents  into  a  big,  greasy,  leather  pouch, 
the  opening  of  which  was  gathered  with  an  old 
shoestring.     He  carried  it  in  his  side  pocket. 

He  then  gave  the  lines  a  shake,  said  "Giddap!" 
to  Napoleon,  and  we  moved  slowly  on. 

"That  thar  woman,"  said  he,  "has  bin  married 
to  two  fellers.  The  fust  feller  died  right  away, 
an'  the  last  one  skipped  off  som'eres  an'  never 
come  back.  She's  got  that  little  place  an'  'er 
father's  livin'  thar  with  'er.  He's  got  money  in 
the  bank  som'eres.  He  didn't  like  neither  o'  them 
husbands,  an'  now  they're  gone'  e's'  livin'  'ere. 
She's  a  nice  woman,  but  she  made  it  hot  fer  them 

[134] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

fellers,  an1  if  she'll  quit  gittirT  married  she'll  be 
all  right.  That  house  we're  comin'  to  now  b'longs 
to  ol'  Jedge  Blossom.  He's  a  slick  one.  I  had 
some  trouble  with  some  fellers  oncet,  an'  went  to 
the  Jedge's  house  to  have  'im  haul  'em  into  court 
over  to  the  county  seat.  We  got  beat  in  the  case 
an'  them  fellers  got  discharged  by  the  court,  but 
the  Jedge  said  I  owed  'im  ten  dollars.  I  didn't 
have  no  ten  dollars  to  spare,  but  I  told  'im  I'd 
leave  'im  a  fish  whenever  I  went  by,  so  I  must 
drop  one  off  when  we  git  thar." 

We  stopped  in  front  of  the  house.  The  old  man 
reached  back  into  the  box  and  pulled  the  slippery 
inmates  over  until  he  got  hold  of  two  that  were 
near  the  bottom.  When  they  came  up  they  did 
not  look  quite  as  attractive  as  those  I  had  seen  in 
the  boat.  He  climbed  slowly  and  painfully  down 
and  carried  them  around  to  the  back  door.  On 
his  return  he  remarked  that  "them  fish  ain't  so 
awful  good,  but  they're  a  dam'  sight  better'n  some 
o'  the  law  that  ol'  bunch  o'  whiskers  ladled  out  fer 
me  over  to  the  county  seat.  I  never  see  'im  'cept 
at  the  store  when  I  go  thar.  The  Jedge's  got  a 
turrible    thirst,    an'    most   always    'e's    soused.      I 

[135] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

gen'rally  take  the  fish  'round  an1  give  'em  to  the 
housekeeper,  er  else  leave  'em  near  the  pump." 

With  another  "Giddap!"  we  continued  our 
journey. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on  we  met  a 
little  cross-eyed  man  with  stubby  whiskers,  carry- 
ing a  big  stiff  satchel  covered  with  shiny  black 
oilcloth.  It  did  not  seem  very  heavy.  He  swung 
it  lightly  back  and  forth  as  he  walked.  He  stopped 
and  asked  if  we  could  direct  him  to  "Sam  Peters's 
place."  He  explained  that  Peters  was  a  relative 
of  his  and  that  he  had  come  to  visit  him.  John 
told  him  that  he  had  passed  the  cross  road  that  led 
to  his  destination,  and  offered  to  give  him  a  ride 
back  to  it,  if  he  would  sit  up  on  the  fish-box.  The 
traveler  gratefully  accepted  the  invitation.  When 
we  came  to  the  corner  where  the  cross-eyed  man 
was  to  leave  us,  he  said  that  he  "would  like  to  buy 
a  couple  o'  fish,  an'  take  'em  over  to  Peters  fer  a 
present." 

Evidently  he  desired  in  this  way  to  repay  John 
for  his  ride;  and  thirty  cents  dropped  into  the 
capacious  maw  of  the  greasy  pouch. 

The  fish  were  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  news- 

[136] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

paper,  and  the  cross-eyed  man  cautiously  opened 
the  satchel  on  the  ground  to  insert  the  package. 
To  our  great  astonishment  a  large  maltese  cat 
jumped  out,  ran  a  few  yards,  stopped,  and  gazed 
back  at  us  with  a  scared  look. 

The  cross-eyed  man  was  much  excited,  but 
finally  succeeded  in  capturing  the  animal.  He 
then  explained  that  it  belonged  to  his  mother-in- 
law.  It  "yowled  so  much  nights"  that  after  try- 
ing various  other  expedients,  he  concluded  to  carry 
it  away  and  give  it  to  Peters,  who  had  once  told 
him  that  he  was  fond  of  cats.  He  had  got  off  at 
the  railroad  station,  about  six  miles  away,  and  had 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way. 

The  cat  and  the  package  were  soon  safely  en- 
closed and  he  started  off  down  the  road. 

"That  cat'll  prob'ly  eat  them  fish  up  on  the  way 
to  Peters'  place,"  said  John,  "but  it's  my  business 
to  sell  'em  an'  not  to  say  what's  done  with  'em 
afterwards." 

The  cross-eyed  man  must  also  have  had  misgiv- 
ings as  to  the  security  of  the  fish,  for  we  saw  him 
stop  in  the  distance,  and  open  the  satchel,  probably 

[137] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

with  a  view  of  separating  the  contents  while  it  was 
still  possible. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  stop  at  the  next  place,"  said 
John.  "When  I  drive  in  thar  the  feller  always 
comes  out  an'  jaws  about  half  an  hour,  an'  then 
sometimes  don't  buy  nothin'.  When  I  go  on  by, 
if  'e  wants  a  fish,  'e  comes  out  an'  yells  fer  me  to 
stop.  When  'e  gits  the  fish  'is  wife  hollers  fer 
'im  to  hustle  up  an'  fetch  it  to  the  house,  out  o' 
the  sun,  so  I  git  away,  an'  thar  ain't  no  time 
wasted." 

The  old  man's  acumen  in  this  case  resulted  in  the 
enrichment  of  the  greasy  pouch  to  the  extent  of 
twenty-five  cents,  without  objectionable  delay  in 
the  day's  business. 

We  were  now  getting  into  the  sleepy  village, 
and  the  houses  were  nearer  together.  We  stopped 
at  several  of  them  before  we  arrived  at  the  gen- 
eral store.  The  male  population  was  lined  up  in 
chairs  on  the  platform  under  the  awning,  and  a 
curious  assortment  of  horses  and  vehicles  stood 
around  in  the  neighborhood. 

None  of  the  horses  looked  as  though  they  would 

[138] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

run  away  if  they  were  not  tied,  but  all  of  them 
were  securely  fastened  to  hitching  rails  and  posts. 

We  had  a  number  of  things  to  attend  to  at  the 
store.  A  poor  old  gray-haired  woman,  who  lived 
alone  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  had  requested 
John  to  "please  see  if  there  is  a  letter  for  me 
when  you  stop  at  the  post  office,  and  bring  it  to 
me  on  your  way  back,  if  there  is  one." 

John  had  presented  her  with  a  fish,  and  said 
that  he  always  gave  her  one  when  he  went  by, 
when  he  had  a  good  supply. 

"She's  bin  expectin'  that  letter  fer  nearly  twenty 
years,  from  'er  son  that  went  away,  but  it  don't 
never  come.  She's  always  waitin'  at  the  gate,  when 
I  go  back,  to  see  if  I  git  it." 

Alas,  how  many  forlorn  ones  there  are  who  wait, 
with  hearts  that  ache,  through  the  lonesome  years, 
for  letters  that  "don't  never  come!"  Those  who 
have  gone  may  have  wandered  far  in  the  world — 
they  may  have  forgotten,  or  their  fingers  may  have 
become  cold  and  still,  but  there  is  hope  in  one 
heart  that  only  ends  with  life  itself.  A  pen  may 
sometimes  tremble,  lips  may  sometimes  falter,  and 
eyes  become  dim,  when  the  thought  comes  that 

[139] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

a  mother's  love  will  be  "waitin'  at  the  gate"  when 
the  other  loves  in  this  world  are  dead. 

We   tied   Napoleon   tightly  with    a   big   piece 
of  rope  which  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  for 


'WAITIN'  AT  THE  GATE" 


him  to  break  if  he  should  attempt  to  run  away, 
fixed  a  small  bag  of  oats  so  that  he  could  munch 
them,  and  went  over  to  the  platform. 

John  was  greeted  with  solemn  nods,  good-na- 

[140] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

tured  sallies,  in  which  there  was  more  or  less  wit — 
generally  less — and  various  questions  about  "the 
fishinV  One  old  fellow  had  "bin  over  to  the 
river"  and  "seen  a  feller  with  a  couple  o'  catfish 
an'  a  pick'rel,  but  Vd  bin  all  day  gittin'  'em,  an' 
'e  didn't  need  no  wheelbarrow  to  git  'em  home." 

We  went  inside  the  store  to  make  a  few  pur- 
chases, and  to  inquire  for  any  mail  which  we  might 
be  able  to  leave  with  people  who  lived  on  the  re- 
turn route. 

John  bought  several  pounds  of  number  six  shot, 
three  dozen  heavy  lead  sinkers,  and  a  pound  of 
"natural  leaf"  for  Sipes,  and  two  pounds  of 
natural  leaf  for  himself.  I  was  tempted  to 
purchase  a  few  cakes  of  soap  and  present  them 
to  John  as  a  souvenir  of  the  trip,  but  remember- 
ing that  it  is  the  tactless  people  on  this  mundane 
sphere  that  have  most  of  the  trouble,  I  changed  my 
mind  and  purchased  a  big  briar  pipe  for  him. 
He  was  greatly  pleased  with  it,  and  thought  that 
"in  about  six  months  smokin'  it  'ud  git  mellered 
up  an'  be  a  dam'  fine  pipe."  We  bought  some 
crackers,  cheese  and  a  can  of  sardines  for  our 
lunch,  which  we  ate  out  under  one  of  the  trees. 

[141] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"I  don't  know  what  Sipes  has  to  'ave  so  many 
sinkers  fer,"  remarked  John.  He  wants  me  to  git 
'im  a  whole  lot  ev'ry  time  I  come  to  town.  I 
guess  'e  must  use  'em  fer  bait,  fer  I  offen  find  'em 
in  'is  fish  when  I  dress  'em." 

The  expression  on  the  old  man's  face  conveyed 
a  suspicion  that  he  was  not  quite  as  gullible  as 
he  might  be,  and  that  Sipes's  strategy  had  not  en- 
tirely deceived  him.  He  probably  had  his  own 
quiet  way  of  adjusting  matters  on  an  equitable 
basis. 

After  lunch  we  spent  a  few  minutes  more  with 
the  wise  ones  in  front  of  the  store,  deposited  our 
parcels  under  the  seat,  released  the  reluctant  horse 
and  departed. 

"Them  fellers  that  set  'round  that  store  don't 
'ave  nothin'  else  to  do,"  said  John.  "They  set 
inside  in  the  winter  time  an'  do  a  lot  o'  talkin', 
an'  sometimes  I  set  with  'em  just  to  hear  what's 
goin'  on.  When  it's  hot  they  set  outside  an'  count 
the  clouds,  but  they're  always  settin',  an'  they  don't 
never  hatch  nothin'.  Ev'ry  year  one  or  two  of 
'em  drops  off,  an'  thar  ain't  many  of  'em  left  to 
what  thar  was  ten  years  ago.     They  didn't  none 

[142] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

of  'em  amount  to  much,  but  I  guess  they're  just 
as  well  off  now  as  anybody  else  that's  dead." 

The  contents  of  the  greasy  pouch  had  been  sadly 
depleted  at  the  store,  but  we  got  more  "cash- 
money''  from  the  few  remaining  houses  in  the 
village.  The  miller  took  three  fish,  and  credited 
John's  account  with  the  amount  of  the  sale.  There 
was  a  debit  on  his  books  against  John  for  flour  and 
meal  furnished  during  the  winter. 

It  wras  getting  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was 
a  long  way  to  John's  smoke-house,  where  the  un- 
sold portion  of  the  stock  must  be  "dressed  an' 
put  in  pickle,"  preparatory  to  smoking  it. 

We  returned  by  the  same  route  as  we  came. 
The  poor  old  woman  was  "waitin'  at  the  gate," 
and  turned  sadly  toward  the  house  as  we  passed. 
She  carried  her  cross  in  silence,  and  the  picture 
was  pathetic. 

On  the  way  back  we  saw  a  sharp-featured  man 
with  red  hair,  who  had  come  out  of  a  house  and 
was  waiting  near  the  road. 

"That  feller,"  declared  John,  as  we  approached 
the  possible  purchaser,  "gives  me  pains.  He  seen 
me  goin'  bv  all   right  this  mornin',  but  'e  didn't 

[143] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

come  out.  He's  a  tight  wad,  an'  'e  thinks  I'll  sell 
'im  fish  fer  almost  nothin'  before  I'll  tote  'em  back. 
I've  got  'em  all  trained  but  'im.  Now  you  just 
watch  me." 

When  we  stopped  the  man  asked  if  we  had  "any 
cheap  bargains  in  fresh  fish." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "I  have,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  what 
I'll  do.  I  hain't  sold  many  to-day,  an'  I've  got 
about  twenty  left.  If  you'll  take  the  whole  bunch, 
you  can  have  'em  fer  a  dollar  an'  a  half." 

"I  can  use  two  of  'em,  at  ten  cents  apiece,  if 
you'll  let  me  pick  'em  out,"  the  man  replied. 

"Giddap!"  said  John,  and  we  were  once  more 
on  our  way. 

Pride  is  the  most  expensive  thing  in  the  world, 
and  under  various  forms  it  dominates  mankind. 
I  could  not  help  but  admire  John's  resolute  sacri- 
fice of  this  opportunity  to  add  twenty  cents  in 
"cash-money"  to  the  greasy  pouch,  which  sorely 
needed  it,  but  evidently  he  was  following  a  policy 
that  had  in  it  much  wisdom. 

After  crossing  the  marshy  strip,  we  went 
through  the  sand  hills,  and  down  the  beach  to 
Sipes's  place,  where  I  had  left  my  boat. 

[144] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

We  found  him  peacefully  smoking  out  in  front 
of  his  shanty,  apparently  without  a  care  in  the 
world. 

John  showed  Sipes  the  fish  he  had  brought  back, 
and  gave  him  the  things  he  had  bought  for  him 
at  the  store.  When  the  account  was  all  figured 
out,  there  was  a  balance  of  twelve  cents  in  John's 
favor,  which  Sipes  said  "we'll  make  up  next  time." 
He  was  deeply  disappointed  that  there  was  no 
"cash-money"  coming. 

Sipes  considered  the  fish  that  were  to  go  to  the 
smoke-house  "a  dead  loss,  an'  they'd  soon  be 
worse'n  that."  He  wanted  "nothin'  to  do  with  'em 
after  they  struck  the  morgue."  He  looked  upon 
the  smoke-house  as  a  sink  of  iniquity,  from  which 
nothing  good  could  possibly  emanate. 

I  thanked  John  for  his  kindness  in  taking  me 
with  him,  and  bade  him  good-bye.  He  and  Na- 
poleon departed,  and  soon  faded  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

The  old  fisherman  had  retailed  a  great  deal  of 
the  current  gossip  of  the  country  to  me  during 
the  day.  Humor  and  pathos,  happiness  and  mis- 
ery, honesty  and  wickedness,  and  all  the  other  ele- 

[145] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

ments  that  enter  into  the  stories  of  human  lives, 
found  their  places  in  the  day's  recital.  The  old 
man  has  much  benevolence  in  his  heart.  Most  of 
his  comments  upon  the  frailties  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures were  tolerant  and  charitable.  They  were 
usually  tempered  with  sly  quips,  and  a  disposition 
to  accord  the  benefit  of  doubt. 

He  frequently  gives  away  fish,  on  his  various 
trips,  to  people  who  cannot  afford  to  buy  them 
and  to  whom  the  food  is  most  welcome,  and  ex- 
tends credit  to  others  who  he  knows  can  never  pay. 
He  does  all  kinds  of  little  errands  that  his  routes 
make  possible,  and  altogether  he  is  a  simple,  good- 
natured  soul. 

Like  everybody  else,  he  is  an  infinitesimal  item 
in  the  scheme  of  creation,  but  there  are  many  other 
items  that  are  much  more  objectionable  than  Cat- 
fish John.  Cleanliness  may  be  next  to  godliness, 
but  it  is  often  associated  with  cussedness,  so  we  can 
safely  leave  the  matter  of  John's  redemption  to 
other  agencies  than  soap. 

Sipes  once  wisely  remarked  that  "it's  no  use 
tryin'  to  tell  ev'rybody  wot  to  do  all  the  time, 
an1  I've  quit.     If  ev'ry  fellerd  mind  'is  own  busi- 

[146] 


CATFISH    JOHN 

ness  instid  o'  butt'n  in  an'  tryin'  to  boss  ev'rybody 
else,  there'd  be  a  lot  less  fussin'  goin'  on.  The 
only  way  to  git  John  clean  'ud  be  to  burn  'im,  an' 
they's  a  lot  o'  clean-lookin'  people  that'll  come 
to  that  long  'fore  he  does.     He's  a  nice  ol'  feller." 


[147] 


* 


-..     :  >**zj* 


■>^mm 


$ 


f 


))oC  Loonen 


CHAPTER    VIII 
DOC    LOONEY 

ANOTHER  nondescript,  whom  I  occa- 
sionally met  prowling  around  among  the 
hills  and  along  the  beach,  was  known  as 
"Doc  Looney."  Catfish  John  said  he  was  a  "yarb 
man,"  and  that  he  had  been  to  see  him  sometimes 
when  he  "felt  bad." 

Doc  seemed  to  have  no  fixed  abode,  and 
seemed  disinclined  to  talk  about  one.  He  had 
rather  a  moth-eaten  appearance,  and  wore  an  old 
pair  of  smoke-colored  spectacles.  He  spent  a  great 
deal  of  time  around  the  edges  of  the  little  marshes, 
back  of  the  hills,  looking  for  some  particular  "po- 
tential plant,"  which  he  was  never  able  to  find. 

He  gave  me  an  interesting  account  of  Catfish 
John's  case,  and  said  he  hoped  to  operate  on  him 
in  the  spring  if  he  didn't  improve.  His  theory 
was  that  the  knee-joints  had  lost  the  "essential  oils" 
that  nature  had  used  for  lubrication,  and  that  re- 
inforcements were  needed.  He  intended  to  "make 
a  cut"  in  the  side  of  the  left  knee,  and  "squirt  some 

[149] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

animal  oil  into  it."  If  this  worked,  he  would 
"oil  up  the  other  leg  later." 

The  consent  of  the  intended  victim  of  this  ex- 
perimental surgery  had  not  yet  been  obtained. 

He  had  tried  smart-weed  tea,  slippery  elm,  and 
snake-root  on  John,  internally,  and  fish  oil  and 
rat  musk  externally,  without  being  able  to  make 
him  stop  complaining.  The  smart-weed  was  to 
furnish  the  compound  with  the  necessary  "punch." 
The  slippery  elm  was  a  "possible  interior  lubri- 
cant," and  the  snake-root  was  designed  to  impart 
the  desired  "sinuousness  and  mobility"  to  the  af- 
fected joints.  The  fish  oil,  applied  to  the  outside, 
was  also  to  provide  possible  lubrication,  and  the 
addition  of  the  rat  musk  was  intended  "to  drive 
it  in." 

Before  resorting  to  the  operation,  he  was  willing 
to  try  the  mysterious  herb  that  he  had  been  looking 
for  all  summer.  Possibly  this  might  fix  John  up 
all  right  if  he  wouldn't  consent  to  the  operation. 
Doc  hoped,  however,  that  the  operation  could  be 
arranged,  as  he  had  "never  performed  one  on  a  leg. 
and  would  like  to  try  it." 

He    believed    that    everybody,    even    when    the 

[150] 


DOC    LOONEY 

general  health  was  good,  should  "take  some  pow- 
erful remedy  occasionally.  It  would  explore  the 
system  for  imperfections,  find  disease  in  unsus- 
pected localities,  and  probably  eradicate  it  before 
it  had  a  chance  to  form.  Whatever  the  remedy 
was  good  for  would  be  headed  off  and  it  was  best 
to  take  no  chances."  He  thought  that  the  medi- 
cine used  "should  have  some  bromide  in  it."  He 
did  not  know  exactly  what  the  bromide  did,  but 
"anyway  its  a  dam'  good  chemical,  and  it  ought 
to  be  used  whenever  possible." 

He  had  what  he  called  a  "spring  medicine" 
which  I  could  have  for  half  a  dollar.  He  stated 
that  the  compound  contained  "ten  different  and 
distinct  sovereign  remedies  and  the  bottle  must 
be  kept  securely  corked."  The  remedies  were  all 
"secret,"  and  "seven  of  them  were  very  powerful. " 
He  had  known  of  cases  "in  which  a  few  doses  had 
destroyed  two  or  three  diseases  at  once,  and  had 
undoubtedly  prevented  others.1'  Used  externally, 
it  "made  an  excellent  liniment  for  bruises  and 
sprains."  It  was  also  "good  to  rub  on  eruptions 
of  any  kind." 

He  thought  that  a  little  whisky  might  help  a 

[151] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

patient  of  his  if  he  could  get  it  to  him  that  after- 
noon, and  asked  if  I  "happened  to  carry  any."  He 
suggested  that  I  bring  some  the  next  time  I  "hap- 
pened along,  as  it  might  be  very  useful."  He 
seldom  used  it  himself,  except  when  he  had  "stum- 
mick  cramps,"  but  these  were  "likely  to  come  on 
'most  any  time" — in  fact  he  had  had  quite  a  severe 
attack  about  an  hour  before,  and  this  was  what 
had  reminded  him  of  it. 

He  told  me  a  long  story  about  his  matrimonial 
troubles.  He  had  been  married  twice,  to  unap- 
preciative  mates.  To  use  his  own  expression,  he 
had  been  "fired"  in  both  instances,  but  they  were 
now  trying  to  find  him  again.  He  was  a  much 
abused  man.  He  had  been  badly  "stung,"  and 
was  now  "hostile  toward  all  females."  He  did 
not  intend  to  get  caught  in  their  toils  again — and 
probably  there  is  not  much  danger  that  he  will  be. 

My  private  sympathies  were  entirely  with  these 
unknown  irate  women  who  had  resorted  to  the 
radical  methods  of  which  Doc  complained. 

He  had  met  with  some  very  difficult  cases  dur- 
ing the  past  few  years.  Some  of  them  "presented 
symptoms  which  had  never  been  heard  of  before." 

[152] 


DOC    LOONEY 

In  such  cases  it  was  his  custom  to  give  the  patient 
"a  certain  solution  that  would  produce  convul- 
sions," and,  as  he  was  "particularly  strong  on  con- 
vulsions," he  was  usually  "able  to  cure  these  in  a 
short  time."  When  the  convulsions  stopped,  the 
unknown  symptoms  would  usually  disappear. 

He  had  endeavored  several  times  to  get  Cat- 
fish John  to  try  this  method,  "but  for  some  reason 
he  didn't  want  to  do  it."  His  fees  in  John's  case 
had  consisted  of  the  entree  of  the  smoke-house  that 
contained  the  fish  which  had  become  too  dead  to 
be  peddled.  He  did  not  think  much  of  the  fish, 
but  declared  that  he  had  got  a  large  one  there 
the  week  before,  "an'  some  of  it  was  all  right." 

Sipes  once  suggested  to  John  that  he  smoke 
some  fish  "  'specially  fer  the  Doc,"  and  if  he  was 
not  willing  to  do  it,  he  would  come  up  some  day 
and  do  it  himself.  He  would  "smoke  some  that 
'ud  finish  the  Doc  in  a  few  hours."  John  objected 
to  this  and  thought  that  the  "Doc  ought  to  have 
the  same  kind  o'  smoked  fish  that  other  people 
got."  Sipes  replied  that  this  was  "pufectly  satis- 
factory" to  him. 

After  discoursing  at  length  on  some  wonderful 

[153] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

cures  which  he  had  effected,  in  cases  that  "the 
reg'lar  doctors  had  given  up,1'  and  the  "marvelous 
potentialities"  of  some  of  his  secret  herb  extracts, 
and  "saline  infusions,  even  when  given  in  small 
doses,"  Doc  would  disappear  in  the  gray  land- 
scape— probably  absorbed  in  his  reflections  upon 
the  "general  cussedness  of  womankind"  and  the 
futility  of  medical  schools. 

I  was  always  apprehensive  when  he  went  in 
John's  direction,  but  as  the  old  fisherman  looked 
comparatively  well  when  I  last  saw  him,  it  was 
evident  that  Doc  had  not  yet  operated. 

"You  know  its  far  be  it  from  me  to  knock  any- 
body," said  Sipes  one  morning,  "but  this  Doc 
Looney  gives  me  a  big  chill.  He's  always  mosey- 
in'  around,  an'  never  seems  to  be  goin'  anywheres. 

"Oncet  'e  come  here  an'  borrowed  a  kittle.  He 
took  it  off  up  the  shore,  an'  that  night  I  seen  'im 
with  a  little  fire  that  'e'd  built  on  the  sand  up 
next  to  the  bluff,  near  some  logs.  He  was  roostin' 
on  one  o'  the  logs,  studyin'  sumpen  that  was  in  the 
kittle.  I  sneaked  up  unbeknown,  an'  watched  'im 
fer  a  long  time.  He  kept  puttin'  weeds  an'  han'- 
fulls  o'  buds  in  the  kittle  an'  stirrin'  the  mess  with 

[154] 


DOC    LOONEY 

a  stick.  Every  little  while  'e'd  taste  o'  the  dope 
bv  coolin'  the  end  o'  the  stick  an'  lickin'  it.  Be- 
fore I  seen  'im  doin'  this  I  thought  'e  might  be 
mixin'  pizen.     He  was  mixin'  sumpen  all  right, 


fer  after  a  while  'e  got  the  kittle  off  en  the  fire  an' 
let  it  cool  a  little;  then  'e  dreened  it  into  a  flat 
bottle  through  a  little  birch  bark  funnel,  an'  hid 
the  bottle  under  a  log,  an'  covered  it  up  with  sand. 

[155] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

He  took  my  kittle  an'  stowed  it  in  some  thick 
brush,  an'  went  off  up  the  ravine. 

He's  bin  doctorin'  ol'  Catfish,  an'  'e's  always 
talkin'  'bout  operatin'  on  'im.  There  ain't  nothin' 
the  matter  with  the  Catfish,  'cept  'e's  got  cricks 
in  'is  legs,  an'  they  bend  out  when  'e  walks.  All 
'e  needs  to  do  is  to  set  down  instid  o'  standin'  up, 
and  'is  legs  won't  bother  'im.  He  comes  along 
'ere  oncet  in  a  while,  with  that  ol'  honey  cart  that 
'e  loads  them  much  deceased  fish  into  that  'e 
peddles.  It  ain't  no  rose  garden,  an'  I  always  stay 
to  wind'ard  when  'e's  'round.  The  next  time  'e 
comes  I'm  goin'  to  tell  'im  wot  I  seen  the  Doc 
doin'.  The  first  thing  Catfish  knows  Doc'll  dope 
'im  with  that  stuff  in  the  bottle,  an'  then  go  after 
'im  with  a  knife.  There  ought  to  be  a  law  aginst 
fellers  like  that.  He's  full  o'  bats,  an'  'e  ought 
to  be  put  som'eres  where  they  could  fly  without 
scarin'  people. 

"I  never  got  my  kittle  back.  I  went  an'  looked 
where  I  seen  'im  hide  it,  but  'e'd  got  to  it  first, 
an'  I  ain't  seen  it  since.  The  next  time  the  Doc 
comes  up  'ere  fer  a  kittle  'e'll  git  it  out  o'  the  air, 
an'  'e'll  recollect  it  the  rest  of  'is  life. 

[156] 


DOC    LOONEY 


"There  was  a  funny  lookin'  female  come  along 
the  beach  a  couple  o'  years  ago.  She  asked  me 
if  I'd  ever  seen  a  man  'round  'ere  with  colored 
glasses,  an'  I'll  bet  she  was  on  the  trail  o'  the  Doc. 


y\f  : 


She  had  three  or  four  long  wire  pins  stickin' 
through  a  pie  shaped  bunnit,  with  a  dead  bird 
on  it.  She  didn't  look  good  to  me  an'  I'd  hate 
to  'a'  bin  the  Doc  if  she  ever  got  to  'im.  I  told 
'er  I  wasn't  acquainted  with  no  such  person.  I 
may  not  like  the  Doc,  but  I  wouldn't  steer  nothin' 

[157] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

like  that  ag'inst  'im,  even  if  'e  did  swipe  my  kittle. 
She  asked  me  about  a  thousand  questions.  The 
lake  was  calm  an'  there  was  a  lot  o'  places  out 
on  it  where  some  breeze  was  puffin',  an'  there  was 
a  lot  of  other  places  where  it  was  all  still  an'  glassy. 
She  wanted  to  know  what  made  them  little  smooth 
spots,  an'  I  told  'er  that  them  places  showed  where 
I  cut  ice  out  last  winter." 

Catfish  John  said  one  day  that  "the  feller  that 
hates  the  Doc  the  worst  'round  'ere  is  Sipes.  He 
gave  Sipes  some  medicine  oncet  when  'e  was  feelin' 
poorly.  It  was  some  'e'd  bin  usin'  fer  a  horse. 
He  said  Sipes  'ad  got  pips,  an'  would  need  a  lot 
o'  doctorin'.  He  kept  takin'  it  fer  about  a  week, 
an'  when  'e  went  out  on  the  beach  one  day  'e 
thought  'e  met  'imself  comin'  back,  an'  'e  quit  tak- 
in' it.  I  guess  the  dope  was  too  strong  fer  'im. 
After  that  they  had  a  fuss  about  sumpen  else,  an' 
the  old  man  didn't  have  no  use  fer  'im.  Sipes 
located  a  big  hornet's  nest  som'eres  up  in  the 
woods.  He  went  thar  one  dark  night  an'  slipped 
a  bag  over  it  so  the  hornets  couldn't  git  out,  an' 
carried  it  into  the  ravine  to  a  little  path  that  the 
Doc  always  used  when  'e  went  to  see  Sipes.     He 

[158] 


DOC    LOONEY 

fastened  it  in  a  bush,  close  to  the  path,  so  the  Doc 
'ud  flush  'em  when  'e  come  by.  He  come  through 
several  times  but  thar  was  nothin'  doin.  Sipes 
said  the  reason  they  didn't  sting  the  Doc  was  that 
they  was  all  friends  o'  his,  an'  they  was  all  the 
same  kind  o'  critters  'e  was.  He  hoped  they'd 
swarm  on  the  Doc  an'  chase  'im  out  o'  the  county, 
but  like  a  lot  of  'is  plans  it  didn't  work." 

Sipes's  theory  of  the  existence  of  a  state  of  natu- 
ral affinity  between  Doc  and  a  nest  of  hornets, 
seemed  to  amuse  old  John  immensely- 

"The  Doc  seems  to  think  I'm  goin'  to  let  'im 
tinker  my  knee,  but  I  ain't.  He  gen'rally  leaves 
some  dope  that  'e  cooks  up  'imself  fer  me  to  take, 
when  'e  comes  up  'ere,  but  I  throw  most  of  it  out 
back  o'  the  smoke-house.  I  let  'im  leave  it  fer  I 
don't  want  to  make  'im  feel  bad.  He  keeps  whet- 
tin'  a  funny  lookin'  knife  when  'e's  'ere,  an'  hintin' 
about  sumpen  'e  wants  to  try  on  my  leg,  but  I 
ain't  goin'  to  have  no  cuttin'  done.  I've  got  a 
new  cure  that  I'm  tryin'  now,  that  I  ain't  sayin' 
nothin'  about." 

One  cloudy  day  during  the  following  fall,  my 
friend  Sipes  and  I  went  up  the  shore  a  few  miles, 

[159] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

and  landed  our  boat  near  the  opening  of  a  deep 
heavily  wooded  ravine,  through  which  a  small 
creek  flowed  to  the  lake. 

I  intended  making  some  sketches  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  Sipes  offered  to  accompany  me.  He 
took  his  gun,  as  he  thought  there  might  be  some 
"patritches"  in  the  ravine. 

We  pulled  the  boat  well  up  on  the  beach,  and 
picked  our  way  along  through  some  pine-trees  and 
underbrush,  following  a  narrow  trail  that  crossed 
the  stream  several  times.  We  had  proceeded  per- 
haps a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  when  we  came 
to  a  queer  looking  structure,  built  into  the  side 
of  the  ravine,  which  had  been  partially  hollowed 
out.  It  was  rudely  constructed  of  planks,  short 
boards,  and  various  odds  and  ends  of  building 
material,  which  had  evidently  been  gathered  up 
on  the  beach.  It  was  about  twelve  feet  long  and 
possibly  nine  feet  wide.  There  were  two  windows 
and  a  door  that  hung  on  rusty  hinges.  One  hinge 
had  lamentably  failed  to  meet  the  necessary  re- 
quirements and  had  been  reinforced  with  a  heavy 
piece  of  leather,  which  had  once  been  a  part  of 
an  old  boot. 

[160] 


DOC    LOOXEY 


It  began  to  rain,  and  as  the  little  hut  was  ap- 
parently deserted,  and  seemed  to  offer  a  conve- 
nient shelter,  we  ventured  to  investigate  the  inte- 
rior. After  removing  a  large  accumulation  of  dead 


THE  DESERTED  LABORATORY 


leaves  and  sand  in  front  of  the  door,  we  pulled 
it  open  and  looked  in. 

There  was  a  small  rusty  old  stove,  in  a  bad  state 
of  repair,  two  broken  chairs,  and  a  table  in  the 


[161] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

single  room.  An  irregular  row  of  bottles,  of 
various  shapes  and  sizes,  filled  a  long  shelf,  and 
sundry  worthless  looking  utensils  were  scattered 
about.  At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a  mildewed 
husk  mattress  on  some  boards  which  had  been 
nailed  to  the  ends  of  four  pieces  of  wood,  about 
two  feet  from  the  floor.  Suspended  from  nails 
which  were  driven  along  the  boards  next  to  the 
roof,  were  large  bunches  of  dried  plants  of  various 
kinds. 

"This  is  'is  nest  all  right,  an'  this  is  where  'e 
makes  'is  dope,"  remarked  Sipes,  and  a  minute 
later  he  held  up  a  battered  looking  object,  and 
exclaimed,  "Dam'd  if  'ere  ain't  my  kittle!" 

We  had  indeed  stumbled  upon  an  abandoned 
secret  retreat  of  Doc  Looney.  Like  an  illicit  still, 
his  laboratory  had  been  hidden  in  untrodden  re- 
cesses, away  from  the  paths  of  men.  In  this  quiet 
spot  he  could  meditate,  and  compound  his  mysteri- 
ous "powerful  remedies"  with  little  fear  of  in- 
trusion by  his  female  pursuers,  and  out  of  it  he 
could  emerge  and  roam  where  his  fancy  led. 

Into  this  deep  seclusion  the  turmoil  of  warring 
schools  of  medicine,  and  the  abuse  of  a  captious 

[162] 


DOC    LOONEY 

world  could  not  come.  His  medicines  and  his 
theories  were  beyond  criticism.  Such  a  fortress 
enabled  him  to  concoct  ammunition  with  which 
to  offer  battle  to  the  diseases  of  his  kind,  without 
fear  of  capture  and  incarceration,  which  he  may 
or  may  not  richly  deserve. 

If  the  motto  "similia  similibus  curantur"  be 
true,  some  terrible  human  suffering  could  be  alle- 
viated with  some  of  the  stuff  we  found  on  the  shelf. 
Many  of  the  bottles  were  empty,  but  we  removed 
the  stopper  from  one  of  them,  and  regretted  it. 
We  were  assailed  by  a  pungent  and  sickening  odor. 
Sipes  remarked  that  "sumpen  must  'a'  crawled  in 
that  bottle  an'  died."  On  taking  it  out  to  the  light 
we  discovered  that  it  was  about  half  filled  with 
angle  worms,  whose  identity  was  practically  gone. 

"I  know  wot  that  stuff  is,"  said  Sipes,  "its  angle 
worm  ile.  That  old  cuss  said  oncet  'e  was  goin' 
to  squirt  some  in  John's  knees  to  make  'em  supple, 
when  'e  operated  on  'im,  but  John  wouldn't  let 
'im  monkey  with  'em." 

There  were  no  labels  on  the  bottles,  with  the 
exception  of  one  which  was  marked  "Bromide." 
The  remaining  materia  medica  could  not  be 
identified. 

[163] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

We  examined  the  odd  pieces  which  had  been 
used  in  building  the  shanty,  with  much  interest. 

The  widely  scattered  driftwood,  along  the  miles 
of  curving  sandy  shore,  suggests  many  reflections 
to  the  imaginative  mind.  Trees  that  have  been 
washed  from  their  footholds  on  the  margins  of  dis- 
tant forests — logs,  slabs,  and  wasted  material  of 
many  kinds,  incident  to  man's  destruction  in  the 
wilderness — broken  and  lost  timbers  from  piers, 
bridges  and  wrecks — are  among  the  spoils  of  winds 
and  seas  that  are  relentless. 

Nature  is  as  regardless  as  she  is  beneficent,  and 
her  storms  and  her  sunshine  do  not  discriminate. 

Some  lonely  dweller  on  the  coast  may  have 
builded  too  near  the  abodes  of  the  water  gods, 
and,  in  their  anger  they  may  have  reached  out 
long  arms  to  his  humble  home,  and  flung  the  fruits 
of  his  toil  among  the  mysteries  of  the  deep.  Some 
unfortunate  bark  may  have  lost  its  battle  with  the 
tempest,  and  given  its  sails  and  timbers  to  the 
waves. 

When  the  vagrant  breezes  found  them,  they 
may  have  wandered  for  many  months  on  the  wide 
expanse.     They  may  have  floated  in  on  the  crests 

[164] 


DOC    LOONEY 

of  the  singing  ground  swells — touched  strange 
shores  and  left  them — drifted  lazily  in  summer 
calms,  and  offered  brief  respites  to  tired  wings  far 
out  on  the  undulating  waters.  They  may  have 
been  buffeted  by  savage  seas  under  angry  skies, 
and  battered  among  the  ice  fields  by  the  winter 
gales. 

Like  frail  and  feeble  souls,  unable  to  master 
their  course,  the  lost  and  worn  timbers  have  been 
the  sport  of  the  varying  winds  and  the  playthings 
of  chance.  They  have  at  last  found  refuge  and 
quiet  on  the  desolate  sands.  Living  forces  have 
thrown  them  aside  and  gone  on. 

Sometimes  a  name,  a  few  letters  on  a  plank,  or 
a  frayed  piece  of  canvas,  will  offer  a  clue  to  its 
origin,  and  tell  a  belated  story  of  misfortune  some- 
where out  on  the  trackless  deep. 

Outside,  on  one  of  the  boards  used  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  rude  little  hut,  we  deciphered  the 
name  "Pauline  Mahaffy."  It  had  evidently  come 
from  the  hull  of  some  proud  craft  that  had  once 
ridden  nobly  through  the  white-caps,  and  dashed 
the  foam  and  spray  before  her.  Alas,  to  what  a 
prosaic  end  had  her  destiny  led  her!    Immured  in 

[165] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

a  deep  ravine,  her  last  sad  relic — her  honored 
name — was  a  part  of  a  disreputable  shanty,  and 
her  last  friend  had  left  it  to  fade  into  oblivion. 

Even  unto  his  solitude  had  femininity,  in  a 
modified  form,  pursued  poor  Looney.  Sipes,  un- 
poetic  and  irreverent,  found  much  joy  in  the  name. 
He  chuckled  in  his  glee,  and  mingled  his  mockery 
with  his  quaint  philosophy. 

"Oh,  Lord,  if  only  that  funny  lookin'  female 
I  told  ye  about,  that  was  huntin'  the  Doc,  could 
see  this!  She'd  spend  a  few  seconds  on  the  Doc, 
an'  the  rest  of  'er  life  trackin'  Pauline.  She 
wouldn't  know  nothin'  about  names  on  ships,  an' 
she'd  think  the  Mahaffy  woman  'ad  snared  'im 
an'  took  'im  away,  an'  'e  was  that  fond  of  'er  that 
'e  put  'er  name  on  'is  shanty. 

"Mebbe  she  landed  on  'im  'ere,  an'  'e  lit  out 
up  the  ravine.  Them  that  live  in  this  world  can 
make  all  the  trouble  fer  themselves  they  want, 
an'  they  don't  need  the  help  o'  nobody  else,  an'  I'll 
bet  the  Doc  thought  so  too,  an'  scooted.  "Pauline 
Mahaffy!  Gosh  what  a  name!  Wouldn't  that 
blow  yer  hat  off?  He  ought  to  'a'  hunted  fer  a 
board  that  'ad  'Idler'  or  sumpen  like  that  on  it 

[166] 


DOC    LOONEY 

that  wouldn't  never  make  no  trouble.  Most  o'  the 
pleasure  boats  that  gits  wrecked  is  named  'The 
Idler.'  They'r  mostly  run  by  lubbers,  an'  'e 
wouldn't  have  no  trouble  findin'  one  if  'e  wanted 
a  nice  name  to  put  on  that  old  dog  house.  'Idler' 
'ud  just  mean  that  'e  wasn't  workin',  an'  you  bet 
'e  ain't,  but  'Pauline  Mahaffy'  don't  sound  good  to 
me.  I  seen  the  old  cuss  less'n  a  week  ago,  an'  'e 
must  'ave  another  coop  som'eres  else.  This  ravine 
'ud  be  a  good  place  to  set  some  bear  traps  'round 
in.    There's  no  knowin'  wot  they  might  ketch." 

When  it  stopped  raining  we  continued  our 
journey  up  the  ravine  to  higher  ground,  and 
walked  through  the  woods.  We  finally  emerged 
into  the  open  country,  made  a  long  detour,  and 
returned  to  the  boat. 

A  sketch  had  been  made  of  the  shanty,  but  we 
had  found  no  "patritches."  The  old  man  was 
greatly  elated  over  the  recovery  of  the  long  lost 
"kittle."  Its  present  value  was  at  least  question- 
able, but  he  was  happy,  and  he  had  carried  it 
tenderly  during  the  trip. 

"When  I  git  home,"  said  he,  "I'll  git  some  sod- 
der  an'  plug  it  up.     If  you've  got  some  o'  them 

[167] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

kind  of  seegars  with  you,  that  you  gave  me  the 
other  day,  I  think  it  'ud  be  nice  fer  us  to  smoke 
one  on  the  strength  o'  me  findin'  my  kittle." 

The  disreputable  utensil  was  stowed  carefully 
in  the  boat,  with  the  rest  of  our  belongings,  and 
finally  reached  its  rightful  home. 

The  adaptation  of  particular  minds  to  particular 
forms  of  activity  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
problems  of  our  highly  specialized  social  struc- 
ture. Happiness  and  achievement  are  largely  de- 
pendent upon  mental  and  physical  harmony  be- 
tween the  man  and  his  task.  The  learned  pro- 
fessions, like  all  other  mediums  of  human  activity, 
carry  with  them  in  their  progress  the  "misfits" 
and  the  "by-products"  which  are  inseparable  from 
them. 

Poor  old  Doc  Looney  is  both  a  misfit  and  a  by- 
product. He  is  innocently  drifting  in  waters  that 
are  beyond  his  depth,  and  while  he  is  of  little  value 
in  the  world,  his  "powerful  remedies,"  "potential 
herbs"  and  "infusions"  will  probably  find  but  few 
victims. 


[168] 


^fc^vti—.Ti 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PROWLER 


ONE  fall  there  were  queer  happenings  in 
the  dune  country.  The  story  is  nearly 
twelve  miles  long,  the  details  extending 
all  along  the  shore,  from  Happy  Cal's  shanty  to 
a  point  away  north  of  where  old  Sipes  sweeps  the 
horizon  through  his  little  "spotter." 

The  tracks  of  some  strange  and  unknown  animal 
began  to  appear  on  the  sand  at  different  places 
along  the  beach.  They  were  about  three  inches 
long,  and  nearly  round,  with  irregular  edges. 
The  impressions  were  not  very  deep.     They  had 

[169] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

not  been  made  with  hoofs.  They  were  too  large 
for  the  imprints  of  a  dog  or  wolf,  and  were  too 
small,  and  not  of  the  right  shape  for  a  bear. 

No  bird  or  beast  could  have  made  these  tracks, 
that  had  ever  been  seen  or  heard  of  by  anybody 
who  inspected  them.  The  denizens  of  the  sand- 
hills, who  had  hunted  and  trapped  among  them 
for  many  years,  were  utterly  amazed  and  dum- 
founded.  Some  marvelous  thing  had  come  into 
the  country.  All  conjecture  seemed  futile,  and 
there  appeared  to  be  no  possible  or  plausible 
theory  that  would  in  any  way  explain  the  enigma. 

The  mystery  became  more  and  more  impene- 
trable. Many  superstitious  speculations  and  sur- 
mises were  indulged  in  by  the  old  derelicts.  They 
were  deeply  perplexed  and  completely  at  a  loss 
to  understand  a  situation  that  was  becoming  un- 
canny, and  began  to  suggest  some  kind  of  witch- 
craft. 

Extended  search  and  diligent  watch  failed  to 
locate  the  four-footed  thing  in  the  daytime.  It 
seemed  only  to  travel  at  night.  Like  the  wond- 
rous "Questing  Beast1'  in  the  Arthurian  legend, 
and  the  fabled  ferocious  white  whale  of  the  ant- 

[170] 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PROWLER 

arctic  seas,  it  became  the  object  of  vain  and  anxious 
pursuit.  It  seemed  to  elude  miraculously  all  of 
the  snares  and  stratagems  devised  for  its  capture. 
Evidences  of  its  recent  presence  were  apparent  at 
the  most  unexpected  times  and  places. 

Attempts  to  trail  it  through  the  woods  resulted 
in  failure,  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  scent  that  a 
dog  could  distinguish.  The  only  tracks  that  could 
be  followed  were  those  that  were  visible  on  the 
smooth  sand  of  the  shore.  They  always  eventually 
led  into  the  woods  on  the  bluffs  and  were  lost. 
The  unsolved  riddle  became  more  puzzling  with 
the  discovery  of  each  new  depredation,  committed 
by  the  unknown  marauder,  and  the  fresh  unde- 
cipherable imprints  were  seen  somewhere  on  the 
beach  almost  every  morning. 

Once  a  half-devoured  woodchuck  was  found 
near  the  mouth  of  a  little  creek  that  emptied  into 
the  lake,  and  a  large  fish,  that  had  been  cast  in 
by  the  waves,  was  discovered,  partially  eaten,  a 
little  farther  on. 

Catfish  John  left  half  a  pailful  of  dead  min- 
nows, which  he  intended  to  use  for  bait,  under  an 
old  box.     When  he  returned   the  next  morning, 

[171] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

he  found  the  box  overturned,  and  the  pail  empty. 
His  little  smoke-house  was  invaded,  the  half-cured 
fish  were  gone,  and  the  tell-tale  tracks  were  all 
over  the  sand. 

Late,  one  dark  night,  Sipes  landed  his  rowboat 
on  the  beach.  From  some  unknown  source  he 
had  obtained  a  side  of  bacon,  which  he  left,  with 
some  other  things,  in  the  boat,  while  he  went  over 
to  his  shanty  to  get  a  lantern.  He  puttered  around 
for  awhile,  getting  his  lantern  ready,  and  looking 
for  some  tobacco.  When  he  went  back  to  the  boat 
with  his  light,  he  discovered  that  the  bacon  and 
the  remains  of  some  lunch  that  he  had  taken  with 
him,  had  disappeared.  The  round  tracks  of  the 
mysterious  thief  were  around  the  end  of  the  boat, 
and  the  trail  led  straight  across  the  beach  into  the 
ravine.  Three  nights  later  a  couple  of  dead  rab- 
bits, that  he  had  hung  up  on  the  side  of  the  shanty, 
were  missing. 

With  this  fresh  outrage,  Sipes  went  on  the 
war-path.  He  loaded  up  his  old  shotgun,  with 
double  charges  of  powder,  and  some  lead  slugs, 
and  lurked  along  the  edges  of  the  bluffs  all  night. 
He  was  beside  himself  with  curiosity  and   rage, 

[172] 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PROWLER 

and  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  almost  any  live 
thing  that  he  might  have  seen  silhouetted  between 
him  and  the  dim  light  on  the  lake  during  his  vigil. 
The  baffling  mystery  was  getting  entirely  too  seri- 


HE  WAS  "COIN  TO 
BUTCHER  IT  ON  SIGHT' 


ous,  and  was  affecting  him  too  much  personally, 
to  admit  of  further  temporizing. 

He  went  on  several  of  these  nocturnal  expedi- 
tions, all  of  which  were  fruitless,  and  his  sulphur- 

[173] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

cms  comments  on  his  failures  to  find  what  he  was 
looking  for,  indicated  the  intensity  of  his  eager- 
ness to  meet  and  annihilate  "that  cussed  thing  that 
'ad  rained  down,  or  come  in  often  the  lake,  an' 
done  all  this."  He  "didn't  care  whether  it  'ad 
scales,  wings  er  tusks."  He  was  "goin'  to  butcher 
it  on  sight." 

"He  was  cert'nly  dead  sore,"  said  Catfish 
John,  in  relating  Sipes's  part  in  the  drama. 
"After  'e'd  hunted  it  awhile,  'e  thought  'e'd  try 
an'  trap  this  varmint.  He  got  an  old  net  an'  spread 
it  up  over  some  sticks.  Then  'e  put  some  meat  on 
a  long  stick  under  the  middle  of  it,  an'  fixed  it  so 
the  net  'ud  fall  down  over  anything  that  tried  to 
pull  away  the  meat.  The  net  was  to  tangle  the 
varmint  all  up,  when  it  fell  on  'im,  an'  'e  tried  to 
git  loose. 

"The  next  day  'e  went  thar  an'  found  them 
tracks  all  'round  an'  the  meat  gone.  Somehow  the 
contraption  hadn't  worked.  He  set  it  agin,  an' 
in  about  a  week  there  was  a  big  skunk  in  it,  all 
messed  up  an'  hostile,  an'  after  that  Sipes  quit. 
He  said  that  them  fellers  that  wanted  to  trap  that 
varmint  could  go   ahead   an'   do   it.     He   didn't 

[174] 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PROWLER 

want  nothin'  to  do  with  no  more  traps.  He  was 
goin'  to  wait  'till  'e  saw  it,  whatever  it  was,  an' 
plug  it  with  'is  gun. 

"He  hunted  'round  a  whole  lot  at  night,  an' 
once  'e  saw  sumpen  black,  movin'  along  under  the 
bluff.  It  was  bright  moonlight,  but  this  thing  was 
in  the  shadow.  He  took  a  couple  o'  pops  at  it, 
but  it  got  away  up  in  the  brush.  Sometimes  'e'd 
hear  queer  sounds  outside  'is  house  in  the  night. 
He'd  git  up  quick  an'  sneak  out  with  'is  gun,  but 
'e  didn't  never  find  nothin'.  The  next  mornin' 
'e'd  look  for  them  funny  tracks  an'  most  always 
found  some.  Next  'e  was  goin'  to  put  out  some 
pizen,  but  'e  couldn't  git  none. 

"Afterward  the  whole  thing  come  out.  It  was 
Cal's  dog  that  done  it.  He  come  'long  the  beach 
one  day  when  I  was  fixin'  my  boat.  I  had  it  up 
on  the  sand,  an'  'ad  poured  a  lot  o'  tar  in  it.  I 
was  tippin'  it  an'  flowin'  the  tar  'round  in  it  to 
catch  all  the  little  leaks  in  the  bottom.  I  left  it 
fer  a  minute,  an'  the  dog  got  in  the  boat  an' 
puddled  all  'round  in  the  tar.  What  'e  done  it 
fer  I  don't  know.  Then  'e  hopped  out  on  the  sand 
an'  caked  'is  feet  all  up,  an'  that's  the  reason  'e 

[175] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

made  them  funny  tracks,  an'  that's  why  them  fel- 
lers with  the  dogs  couldn't  follow  the  scent.  He 
didn't  leave  no  animal  scent.  The  tar  an'  the  sand 
killed  it.  He  probly  didn't  like  the  way  'is  feet 
felt,  an'  when  'e  skipped  out  from  'ere  'e  was 
prob'ly  scart  an'  didn't  go  back  to  Cal's.  He  must 
'av  spent  his  time  hidin'  'round  in  the  woods  in 
the  daytime,  an'  at  night  'e'd  come  out  'long  the 
beach  to  git  sumpen  to  eat. 

"I  didn't  think  of  all  this  'till  some  feller  come 
'long  'ere  an'  said  'e'd  followed  them  tracks  down 
to  Cal's  place  an'  found  'im  settin'  outside  rubbin' 
'is  dog's  paws  with  grease,  an'  tryin'  to  git  big 
lumps  o'  tar  an'  sand  off  'em.  The  dog  'ad  bin 
gone  about  two  weeks,  an'  Cal  thought  'e'd  gone 
off  fer  good.    I'll  bet  Cal  was  glad  to  git  'im  back. 

"I'd  oughter  thought  it  out  before,  fer  Cal  come 
up  'ere  one  day  an'  asked  me  if  I'd  seen  'is  dog, 
but  I'd  forgot  all  about  'is  gittin  in  the  tar,  an' 
s'posed  'e'd  gone  off  home  when  'e  left  'ere." 

Pete's  adventures  had  been  varied  and  exciting 
while  they  lasted.  He  had  added  variety  and  in- 
terest to  the  community  in  which  he  lived,   and 

[176] 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PROWLER 

had  really  done  but  very  little  actual  harm  during 
his  absence  from  home. 

Sipes  philosophically  remarked  that  '  everythin' 
comes  to  an  end  in  this  world,  an'  this  'ere  dog 
'11  come  to  one,  if  'e  ever  gits  this  way  agin. 
I  s'pose  it's  all  sweet  an'  proper  fer  me  to  git  a 
bunch  o'  bacon  an'  two  rabbits  stole,  an'  I  s'pose 
Fm  the  only  one  that  cares  about  them  things  I 
lost,  but  all  the  same,  I  ain't  runnin'  no  animile 
restaurant,  an'  some  day  there'll  be  some  dog 
tracks  on  this  beach  that  '11  all  point  the  same  way, 
if  that  thievin'  quadrypeed  ever  comes  skulpin' 
'round  'ere/' 


[177] 


m 


X  Le^cr-X  Sum\rv^7 


CHAPTER  X 
J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

A  LONELY  abode  near  the  opening  of  a 
ravine,  about  four  miles  from  Sipes'  hut, 
bore  the  scars  of  many  winters.  It  was 
not  over  twelve  feet  square.  It  had  two  small  win- 
dows, a  narrow  door  and  a  "lean  to1'  roof.  On 
the  door  was  the  roughly  carved  inscription — "J. 
Ledyard  Symington,  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays." 
Near  this  was  nailed  an  old  cigar  box,  with  a 
slit  in  the  cover.  Lettered  on  the  box  was  a  re- 
quest to  "Please  leave  card." 

I  often  passed  this  mysterious  dwelling  with- 
out seeing  any  indications  of  life,  but  one  chilly 
rainy  day  I  saw  smoke  issuing  from  the  bent  piece 
of  stove-pipe,  protruding  through  the  roof.  The 
fact  that  it  happened  to  be  Thursday  helped  to 
overcome  my  reluctance  to  disturb  the  occupant. 

A  cordial  and  cheery  call  to  "come  in"  was  the 
response  to  my  gentle  knock. 

I  found  a  rather  tall,  pleasant  faced,  watery 
eyed  old  man,  with  a  gray  beard,  aquiline  nose, 

[179] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

and  shaggy  eyebrows,  who  rose  from  a  box  on 
which  he  had  been  sitting  before  a  small  table. 
There  was  an  unmistakable  air  of  noblesse 
oblige  in  his  polite  offer  of  another  box.  His 
clothes  bespoke  the  "shabby  genteel,"  which  was 
accentuated  by  a  somewhat  battered  and  much 
worn  plug  hat,  that  hung  on  a  peg  near  the  win- 
dow back  of  the  table. 

I  apologized  for  my  intrusion,  told  him  that  I 
had  had  rather  a  long  walk,  and  would  be  glad 
to  rest  awhile  before  his  fire.  He  seemed  in- 
terested in  some  sketches  made  during  the  morn- 
ing, which  he  asked  to  see.  His  courtly  air  did 
not  desert  him  when  he  confessed  that  he  "hadn't 
had  a  smoke  for  a  week."  I  handed  him  some 
tobacco.  He  fished  a  disreputable  looking  big 
black  pipe  out  of  some  rubbish  on  a  shelf,  and 
was  soon  enveloped  in  the  comforting  fumes. 

I  was  made  to  feel  much  at  home,  and  his  con- 
versation soon  lost  its  tinge  of  formality.  He 
looked  at  me  curiously  and  asked  where  I  was 
from.  When  I  told  him,  his  eyes  brightened,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  what  the  principal  society 
events  had  been  during  the  winter.     He  said  he 

[180] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

had  only  seen  half  a  dozen  papers  in  five  or  six 
months,  and  had  lost  all  track  of  what  had  been 
going  on. 

Along  one  of  the  shelves  at  the  end  of  the  room 
were  ranged  several  books  on  etiquette,  and  thirty 
or  forty  much  worn  novels,  of  the  variety  usually 
absorbed  by  very  young  ladies  in  hammocks,  scat- 
tered around  the  shaded  lawns  of  white  flannel 
summer  resorts,  where  the  most  intense  intellectual 
occupations  are  tennis  and  dancing — books  in 
which  are  recorded  the  "dashing  devilish  beauty 
of  Cyril,"  with  his  "corking  and  perfectly  rip- 
ping" ideas,  and  the  bewildering  charms  of  wil- 
lowy Geraldine,  the  violet  eyed  heiress,  with  the 
long  lashes,  her  many  stunning  costumes  and 
clinging  gowns.  Flashing  glances,  nonchalantly 
twirled  canes,  faintly  perfumed  stationery,  and 
softlv  tearful  moods  adorn  the  pages. 

The  limousine  of  the  "Soap  King"  goes  whirl- 
ing by,  which  is  placed  at  the  service  of  the  duke, 
when  he  arrives,  incognito,  to  annex,  matrimoni- 
allv,  the  anxious  millions  that  await  him.  The 
storv  takes  us  up  wondrously  carved  staircases, 
among  many  palms,  and  into  marble  halls,  through 

[181] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

which  faint  voluptuous  music  flows.  The  walls 
are  lined  with  long  rows  of  priceless  old  masters. 
Modern  society  novelists  have  found  and  given  to 
the  world  many  more  Rembrandts  and  Van  Dykes 
than  those  two  humble  toilers  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  social  scale  could  have  painted  in  a  geo- 
logical era.  The  duke  eventually  fails  to  produce 
his  coronet,  and  the  true  love  match  is  off.  Cupid 
disappears  through  a  stained  glass  casement.  Dare 
Devil  Cyril  rescues  the  lovely  Geraldine  from 
under  a  fallen  horse,  or  a  purple  touring  car, 
and  bravely  carries  her  to  another;  her  warm 
breath  touches  his  cheek,  and  the  wedding  chimes 
come  just  in  time  to  enable  the  fair  reader  to 
dress  for  dinner. 

Oh,  noble  Cyril,  and  bewitching  Geraldine! — 
your  names  may  change  on  different  pages,  but 
ever  and  anon  you  flit  through  the  countless 
cylinders  of  unnumbered  presses.  Like  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  you  toil  not,  neither  do  you  spin.  The 
triumphs  and  the  failures  of  a  thinking,  striving 
world  are  not  for  you;  its  problems  and  its  tears 
are  not  within  your  charmed  circle,  but  He  who 
marks  the  sparrow's  fall,  may  gather  even  you, 

[182] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

with  the  rest  of  the  created  things,  if  there  are 
other  worlds  to  come. 

Noticing  my  glance  at  the  book-shelf,  my  host 
said,  rather  apologetically,  "my  library  is  not  as 
large  as  I  would  like  to  have  it.  The  fact  is  that 
I  take  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  social  matters. 
I  am  unfortunately  placed  in  a  very  peculiar  and 
humiliating  position.  A  great  many  years  ago  I 
fell  heir  to  a  large  fortune,  on  the  death  of  my 
uncle,  and  expected  to  devote  my  time  entirely  to 
society,  and  the  pleasures  of  a  gentleman  of  leisure. 
A  lot  of  contesting  relatives  came  on  the  scene, 
and  for  over  twenty  years  the  case  has  been  in 
the  courts.  Several  times  I  almost  got  cheated  out 
of  my  inheritance,  but  it  looks  now  as  though  I 
might  get  it. 

"I  keep  in  touch  with  everything  that  may  be 
of  use  to  me  when  I  go  into  the  world  in  the  way 
that  my  uncle  intended  that  I  should.  As  social 
novelists  generally  reflect  their  own  periods  quite 
accurately,  I  feel  that  these  books  give  me  a  very 
good  idea  of  what  is  going  on,  and  I  get  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  out  of  them. 

"I  had  a  pretty  good  education,  when   I  was 

[183] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

young,  but  I  don't  care  so  much  about  that,  as  I 
do  for  the  ability  to  do  things  in  proper  form 
when  I  get  what  is  coming  to  me.  This  enforced 
residence  in  these  miserable  hills,  is  just  to  make 
certain  people  think  that  I  am  dead.  I  am  going 
to  be  alive  at  just  the  right  time,  and  when  I  show 
up  there  will  be  a  lot  of  surprises. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  my  ancestry  is  very  ancient. 
I  looked  it  up  in  Burke's  Peerage  when  my  uncle 
died,  and  found  that  I  came  from  two  of  the  very 
best  families.  On  the  other  side  I  would  be  a 
baronet,  but  I  don't  want  to  go  over  there  until 
I  get  my  money.  When  I  walk  into  my  estates, 
I  will  do  so  unknown.  I  will  suddenly  reveal 
myself,  and  there  will  be  a  scattering  of  a  lot  of 
upstarts  and  false  nobility  who  have  been  enjoy- 
ing what  rightfully  belongs  to  me. 

"I  don't  associate  with  these  loafers  that  live 
around  in  these  sand  hills  at  all.  They  are  low 
fellows,  and  I  have  no  use  for  them.  Every  three 
months  I  go  to  a  certain  post-office,  and  get  a 
money  order  for  a  certain  amount,  from  a  certain 
party  who  knows  where  I  am,  and  is  keeping  track 
of  things  for  me.     It  isn't  as  big  a  money  order  as 

[184] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

I  would  like,  but  I  assure  you  that  these  conditions 
are  only  temporary,  and  when  the  proper  time 
comes,  you  will  find  me  gone." 

I  listened  to  the  old  man's  story,  which  occupied 
most  of  the  afternoon,  with  some  suspicion,  but 
with  much  interest.  Some  mysterious  tea  and  a 
couple  of  damp  soda  crackers  were  served  at  this 
impromptu  reception.  He  expressed  much  pleas- 
ure that  I  had  called,  and  said  that  he  hoped  I 
would  come  again. 

The  impressions  of  my  visit  were  really  very 
pleasant,  until,  a  few  days  later,  they  came  under 
the  fire  of  the  withering  sarcasm  and  barbed  satire 
of  Sipes,  who  from  his  lonely  eyrie  four  miles 
away,  across  a  bend  in  the  shore,  could  observe 
the  home  of  J.  Ledyard  Symington  through  his 
little  spy-glass. 

"That  feller  down  there  makes  me  tired.  When 
'e  fust  come  in  the  hills,  about  six  years  ago,  'e 
put  up  a  sign  that  said  'J-  Simons.'  He  used  to 
go  'way  oncet  in  a  while,  an'  ev'ry  time  'e'd  come 
back  with  a  lot  o'  red  an'  green  books  that  'e'd  set 
out  on  the  sand  an'  read.     He's  got  the  society 

[185] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

bug,  an'  'e  thinks  'e's  cut  out  fer  to  shine  in  new 
clothes  all  the  time. 

"Some  day  'e  says  'e's  goin  to  live  in  a  big  house. 
He  comes  'ere  sometimes  to  see  if  I've  got  any 
newspapers.  I  got  some  oncet,  to  see  if  them  Japs 
'ad  got  them  fellers  in  Port  Arthur  yet,  an'  Simons 
set  down  an'  studied  'em  all  through  to  see  wot 
the  society  push  was  doin'. 

"He's  got  a  box  out  in  front  that  says  to  drop 
in  cards.  Oncet,  just  to  show  'im  that  I  was  polite, 
I  stuck  a  seven  spot  into  it.  I  wouldn't  hand 
nothin'  above  a  seven  to  a  guy  like  'im.  After 
that  I  laid  out  a  lot  o'  games  o'  sollytare  that  I 
couldn't  make  work,  an'  I  seen  sumpen  was  the 
matter  with  my  deck,  an'  then  I  recollected  that 
cussed  seven  spot,  an'  I  skipped  back  there  when 
that  ol'  goat  was  snoozin'  one  night  an'  fished  it 
out  of  'is  box.  He's  plumb  nutty,  an'  'e  don't 
amuse  me  a  bit.  You  fellers  may  like  'im,  but  I'll 
bet  that  when  'e  gits  'is  big  house,  you  an'  me  won't 
be  asked  to  it.    Nothin'  like  him  goes  with  me. 

"He  never  has  no  whisky,  an'  I  don't  never  see 
'im  out  on  the  lake.  He  don't  fish  ner  hunt,  an' 
Hell!  I  don't  know  where  'e  gits  'is  money.    After 

[186] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

'e'd  bin  down  there  a  couple  o'  years,  'e  changed  the 
name  on  'is  door  to  'J.  L.  Simons',  an'  after  that 
'e  had  it  'J.  Ledward  Simons'  an'  now  its  'J.  Led- 
yard  Symington  —  Tuesdays  &  Thursdays'.  I 
s'pose  'e'll  'ave  'Tuesdays  &  Thursdays'  fer  a  part 
o'  that  name  'e's  grad'ally  constructin'  if  'e  keeps 
it  up.  Mebbe  'e  means  that  on  them  days  'e's  al- 
ways out,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  keep  track  o'  the 
days  o'  the  week  fer  him,  and  'e  and  'is  ol'  hard- 
boiled  hat  can  go  to  the  devil. 

"If  'e  has  'J.  Ledyard  Symington  Tuesdays  & 
Thursdays'  fer  a  name  'ere,  wot  d'ye  s'pose  'e'll 
'ave  it  when  'e  gits  in  'is  big  house,  that  'e's  al- 
ways tellin'  about?  I'll  bet  'e'll  'ave  a  name  that 
ye  can't  git  through  the  yard.  His  plug  hat  makes 
me  sick.  Wot  d'ye  s'pose  Dewey  at  Maniller 
would  'av  said  to  a  man  with  a  lid  like  that?  He'd 
a  said  'Bingo!'  an'  smashed  it.  After  that  'e'd  a 
told  Gridley  to  begin'  on  'im  any  time  'e  was 
ready." 

At  this  point  the  old  man's  comments  began  to 
be  mingled  with  so  much  ornate  profanity  that  it 
seems  futile  to  attempt  properly  to  expurgate  his 
remarks.     He  declared  that  Simons  was  certainly 

[187] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"bunk."  "A  name  like  wot  'e'd  built  out  o'  noth- 
in'  would  finish  anybody."  He  thought  that  some- 
thing "ought  to  happen  to  everybody  that  got  stuck 
on  themselves,  an'  usually  it  did.  All  o'  them 
geezers  that  live  'ere  an'  there  on  the  shore,  are 
prob'ly  'ere  an'  there  'cause  it's  better  so  fer  them. 
With  me  its  different.  I'm  'ere  'cause  I  want 
to  be  'ere.  Simons  '11  prob'ly  light  out  some  day, 
the  same  way  Cal  did.  I'm  goin'  down  there  some 
night  an'  slip  the  whole  darn  deck  in  'is  card 
box,  just  to  show  my  heart's  in  the  right  place." 

Sipes  was  a  captious  critic,  and  to  him  the 
"mantle  of  charity"  was  an  unknown  fabric.  It 
was  evident  that  the  social  strata  in  the  dunes  had 
some  humps  that  would  never  be  leveled. 

I  passed  the  shanty  some  months  later,  but  there 
was  no  smoke  or  other  sign  of  habitation.  The 
disappointed  old  occupant  had  evidently  "lit  out." 
The  sad-looking  "plug"  was  stuck  over  the  top  of 
the  rusty  section  of  stovepipe  that  had  served  as 
the  chimney.  It  was  now  literally  a  "stovepipe 
hat" — that  crown  of  absurdity  among  the  follies 
of  mankind,  against  which  both  art  and  nature 
have  vainly  protested  through  blinding  tears. 

[188] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

I  suspected  the  subtle  facetiousness  of  Sipes  in 
the  apt  decoration  of  the  protruding  piece  of  stove 
pipe  with  this  melancholy  emblem  of  departed 
gentility.  Its  top  was  ripped  around  the  edge, 
and  it  moved  languidly  up  and  down  in  the  vary- 
ing winds,  as  if  in  mockery  of  inconstant  fashion, 


'y 


which  is   regulated  by  custom  instead  of  artistic 
taste. 

The  building  of   the   distinguished   name   had, 

[189] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

however,  been  continued,  and  the  legend  on  the 
door  was  now,  "J.  Ledyard  Symington-Syming- 
ton, Bart."  The  reception  days  had  been  effaced. 
The  old  man  may  have  achieved  that  point  in  his 
social  aspirations  when  he  "didn't  care  to  know 
anybody  who  wasn't  anybody."  Like  Don  Qui- 
xote, he  may  have  departed  to  battle  with  hostile 
windmills,  or  he  may  have  walked  into  his  estates 
"unknown,"  to  mingle  in  phantom  social  functions 
in  ghostly  halls  and  silent  chambers  in  the  Great 
Beyond. 

Perhaps  there  are  no  "Tuesdays  and  Thursdays" 
there,  and  calling  cards  and  stovepipe  hats  are 
unnecessary.  His  blighted  hopes,  and  those  that 
may  have  ended  in  fruition,  concern  the  widely 
distributed  gossips  along  the  coast  no  more. 

While  we  may  be  interested  and  amused  with 
the  petty  gossip,  the  rude  philosophy,  the  quaint 
humor,  the  little  antagonisms,  and  the  child-like 
foibles  of  these  lonely  dwellers  in  the  dune  country, 
the  pathos  that  overshadows  them  must  touch  our 
hearts. 

They  have  brought  their  life  scars  into  the  deso- 
late sands,  where  the  twilight  has  come  upon  them. 

[  190] 


J.    LEDYARD    SYMINGTON 

The  roar  of  a  mighty  world  goes  on  beyond  them. 
Unable  to  navigate  the  great  currents  of  life,  they 
have  drifted  into  stagnant  waters. 

Happy  Cal's  unwelcome  guests  and  his  blighted 
affections — Catfish  John's  rheumatism  and  his 
pork  that  "them  fellers"  stole — Old  Sipes's  lost 
"kittle" — Doc  Looney's  unappreciative  wives — J. 
Ledyard  Symington's  "humiliations,"  and  all  the 
other  troubles  of  the  old  outcasts,  will  disappear 
into  the  oblivion  of  the  years,  with  the  rest  of  the 
affairs  and  happenings  of  this  life. 

If  they  have  not  been  ambitious,  their  rapacity 
has  not  destroyed  empires,  or  deluged  the  earth 
with  blood.  If  they  have  not  been  learned,  they 
have  not  used  knowledge  to  devise  means  for  the 
destruction  of  human  life.  If  they  have  not  been 
powerful,  their  greed  has  not  oppressed  and  im- 
poverished their  fellow-beings. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  storms  from  the  lake,  and 
civilization  on  the  shore,  will  deal  gently  with 
these  poor  derelicts,  as  they  peacefully  fade  away 
into  the  elements  from  which  they  came. 


[191] 


{From  the  A  uthor's  Etching) 


'RESUMING  THEIR  MIGRATIONS' 


I  ■ 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    BACK    COUNTRY 


BEHIND  the  ranges  of  the  sand  hills,  lie 
stretches  of  broken  waste  country.  It  is 
diversified  with  patches  of  woods,  tangled 
thickets,  swamps,  little  ponds,  stagnant  pools 
covered  with  green  microscopic  vegetation,  and 
small  areas  of  productive  soil.  There  are  long, 
low    elevations,    covered    sparsely    with    gnarled 

[193] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

pines,  spruces,  poplars,  and  sumacs.  Tall  elms, 
many  willows,  and  an  occasional  silvery  barked 
sycamore,  lend  variety  to  the  scene. 

Here  and  there,  just  back  of  the  big  hills,  are 
deep  secluded  tarns,  which  have  no  visible  outlets 
or  inlets.  One  looks  cautiously  down  from  the 
surrounding  edges.  In  the  obscurity  of  the  deep 
shadows  there  is  tangled  dead  vegetation,  a  few 
decayed  tree-trunks,  and  an  uncanny  stillness. 
Unseen  stagnant  water  is  there,  and  the  mysterious 
depths  seem  to  be  without  life.  They  are  fit  abodes 
for  gnomes,  and  evil  spirits  may  haunt  their  si- 
lences. There  is  an  instinctive  creepy  feeling,  and 
an  undefined  dread  in  the  atmosphere  around 
them. 

Swamps  of  tamarack,  which  are  impenetrable, 
contribute  their  masses  of  deep  green  to  the  charm 
of  the  landscape.  The  ravagers  of  the  wet  places 
hide  in  them,  and  the  timid,  hunted  wild  life  finds 
refuge  in  their  still  labyrinths.  In  the  winter 
countless  tracks  and  trails  on  the  snow  lead  into 
them  and  are  lost. 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  the  marsh 
dwellers  is  the  muskrat.    This  active  little  animal 

[194] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

is  an  ever-present  element  in  the  life  of  the  sloughs, 
and  he  is  the  most  industrious  live  thing  in  the 
back  country.  His  numerous  families  thrive  and 
increase,  in  spite  of  vigilant  enemies  that  besiege 
them.  The  larger  owls,  the  foxes,  minks,  and  steel 
traps  are  their  principal  foes. 


A    MARSH    DWELLER 


The  houses,  irregular  in  shape  and  size,  dot  the 
surfaces  of  the  ponds  and  swamps.  Thev  are  built 
of  lumps  of  sod  and  mud,  mixed  with  bulrushes 

[195] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

and  heavy  grass.  They  usually  contain  two  rooms, 
one  above  the  other,  and  little  tunnels  lead  out 
from  them,  under  ground,  providing  channels  of 
escape  in  case  of  danger,  and  safe  routes  of  ap- 
proach to  the  houses  from  the  burrows  in  the 
higher  ground  along  the  banks. 

The  upper  cavity  of  the  little  adobe  structure 
is  usually  lined  with  moss  and  fine  grass.  Lily 
roots,  freshwater  clams,  and  other  food  are  carried 
up  into  it  from  under  the  ice  in  the  winter.  In 
these  cosy  retreats  the  little  colonies  live  during 
the  cold  months,  oblivious  to  the  cares  and  dangers 
of  the  outside  world. 

There  is  a  network  of  thoroughfares  and  bur- 
rows in  the  soft  earth  among  the  roots  of  the  wil- 
lows on  the  neighboring  banks.  The  devious 
secret  passages  and  runways  are  in  constant  use 
during  the  summer. 

The  muskrats  are  great  travelers,  and  roam 
over  the  meadows,  through  the  ravines,  up  and 
down  the  creeks,  and  around  on  the  sand  hills,  in 
search  of  food  and  adventure.  They  run  along  the 
lake  shore  at  night,  and  their  tracks  are  found  all 
over  the  beach.     Their  well-beaten  paths  radiate 

[196] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

in  all  directions  from  their  homes.  They  are  not 
entirely  lovable,  but  the  back  country  would  be 
desolate  indeed  without  them. 

The  herons  stand  solemnly,  like  sentinels,  among 


A  SENTINEL  IN  THE  MARSH 


the  thick  grasses,  and  out  in  the  open  places, 
watching  for  unwary  frogs,  minnows,  and  other 
small  life  with  which  nature  has  bountifully 
peopled  the  sloughs.  The  crows  and  hawks  drop 
quickly  behind  clumps  of  weeds  on  deadly  errands 
in  the  day  time,  and  at  night  the  owls,  foxes,  and 

[197] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

minks  haunt  the  margins  of  the  wet  places.  The 
enemies  of  the  Little  Things  are  legion.  Violent 
death  is  their  destiny.  With  the  exception  of  the 
turtles,  they  are  all  eaten  by  something  larger  and 
more  powerful  than  themselves. 

In  the  fall  and  early  spring  the  wild  ducks  and 
geese  drop  into  the  ponds  and  marshes,  and  rest 


(From  the  Author's  Etching) 


THEY  "DROP  INTO 

THE  PONDS  AND  MARSHES" 


for  days  at  a  time,  before  resuming  their  migra- 
tions. They  come  in  from  over  the  lake  during 
the  storms  to  find  shelter  for  the  night,  and  are 
reluctant  to  leave  the  abundant  food  in  these  nooks 


[198] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

behind  the  hills.  A  flat-bottomed  boat  among  the 
bulrushes,  and  a  few  artificially  arranged  thick 
bunches  of  brush  and  long  grass,  which  have  been 
used  as  shooting  blinds,  usually  explain  why  they 
have  not  stayed  longer. 

A  few  of  the  ducks  remain  during  the  summer, 
build  their  nests  on  secluded  boggy  spots,  and  rear 
their  young;  but  the  minks,  snapping  turtles,  and 
other  enemies  besides  man,  generally  see  that  few 
of  them  live  to  fly  away  in  the  fall. 

Occasionally  a  small  weather-beaten  frame 
house,  and  a  tumble-down  old  barn,  project  their 
gables  into  the  landscape.  Around  them  is  usually 
a  piece  of  cleared  land  that  represents  years  of  toil 
and  combat  with  the  reluctant  soil,  obstinate 
stumps,  and  tough  roots. 

Nature  has  begrudgingly  yielded  a  scanty  liveli- 
hood to  the  brave  and  simple  ones  who  have  spent 
their  youth  and  middle  age  in  wresting  away  the 
barriers  which  have  stood  between  them  and  the 
comforts  of  life.  The  broken-spirited  animals  that 
stand  still,  with  lowered  heads,  in  the  little  fields 
and  around  the  barn,  are  mute  testimonies  of  the 
years  of  drudgery  and  hardship. 

[199] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

On  approaching  the  house  we  encounter  a  few 
ducks  that  splash  into  the  ditch  along  the  muddy 
road,  and  disappear  in  great  trepidation  among  the 
weeds  and  bulrushes  beyond  the  fence.  The  loud 
barking  of  a  mongrel  dog  is  heard,  a  lot  of  chickens 
scatter,  and  several  children  with  touseled  heads 
and  frightened  faces  appear.  Behind  them  a  lean- 
faced  woman  in  a  faded  calico  dress  looks  out  with 
a  reserved  and  kindly  welcome.  The  dog  is  re- 
buked sharply,  and  finally  quieted.  The  scared 
children  hastily  retreat  into  the  house,  and  peek  out 
through  the  curtained  windows.  We  explain  that 
we  came  to  ask  for  a  drink  of  water.  The  woman 
disappears  for  a  moment,  brings  a  cup,  and  some 
rain  water  in  a  broken  pitcher,  with  which  to 
prime  the  pump  in  the  yard. 

This  wheezy  piece  of  hardware,  after  much 
teasing,  and  encouragement  from  the  broken 
pitcher,  finally  yields,  and  one  object  of  the  visit 
is  accomplished.  The  children  begin  cautiously 
to  reappear,  their  curiosity  having  got  the  better 
of  their  alarm. 

A  few  commonplace  remarks  about  the  weather, 
a  complimentary  reference  to  a  flower  bed  near  the 

[200] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

fence,  an  inquiry  as  to  the  ages  of  the  children, 
soon  establish  a  friendly  footing,  and  we  are  asked 
to  sit  down  on  the  bench  near  the  pump  and  rest 
awhile. 

"Don't  you  sometimes  feel  lonely  out  here,  with 
no  neighbors ?"  I  asked.  "No,  indeed,1'  she  re- 
plied. "We've  got  all  the  neighbors  we  want. 
Nobody  lives  very  near  here,  but  there  isn't  a 
day  passes  that  I  don't  see  somebody  drivin'  by 
out  on  the  road.  I  ride  to  town  every  two  or  three 
weeks,  an'  that's  enough  for  anybody." 

A  man  of  perhaps  forty,  but  who  looks  to  be 
fifty,  rather  tall  and  spare,  with  bent  shoulders 
and  shambling  step,  appears  after  a  few  minutes. 
His  shaved  upper  lip  and  long  chin  whiskers 
strictly  conform  to  the  established  customs  of  the 
back  country. 

It  is  a  land  of  the  chin  whiskers,  and  they  are 
met  with  everywhere  in  the  by-paths  of  civiliza- 
tion. Their  picturesque  quality  is  the  delight  of 
him  who  uses  the  lead  pencil  and  pen  to  portray 
the  oddities  of  his  race. 

He  has  come  from  over  near  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  where  he  has  been  repairing  a  decayed  rail 

[201] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

fence.  His  greeting  is  kindly,  and  we  are  made 
to  feel  quite  at  home.  Some  fresh  buttermilk  from 
an  old-fashioned  churn  near  the  back  door  adds 
to  the  pleasant  hospitality,  and  the  loud  cackling 
of  a  proud  and  energetic  rooster,  adorned  with 
brilliant  plumage,  who  takes  credit  for  the  warm 
egg  which  a  dignified  old  hen  has  just  left  in  the 
corner  of  the  corn  crib,  lends  an  air  of  cheerful- 
ness and  animation  to  the  scene.  He  has  just 
learned  of  the  achievement,  and  the  glory  is  his. 
Out  in  the  yard  is  a  covered  box  with  a  circular 
hole  in  its  front.  A  small  chain  leads  into  it, 
which  is  attached  to  the  outside  by  a  staple.  After 
a  few  minutes  the  furtive  wild  eyes  of  a  captive 
coon  peer  out  fearfully  from  the  inner  darkness 
of  the  box.  He  was  extracted  from  the  cosy  in- 
terior of  a  hollow  tree,  over  near  the  edge  of  the 
swamp,  during  his  infancy,  and  was  the  sole  sur- 
vivor of  a  moonlight  attack  on  his  home  tree,  after 
the  dogs  had  located  the  happy  family.  The  tree 
was  cut  down,  the  little  furry  things  mangled  by 
savage  teeth,  and  their  house  made  desolate.  The 
little  fellow  was  carried  into  a  hopeless  captivity, 
where  his  days  and  nights  are  passed  in  terror. 
He  is  a  prisoner  and  not  a  pet. 

[202] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

It  is  mankind  that  does  these  things — not  the 
brutes — and  yet  we  cry  out  in  denunciation  when 
humanity  is  thus  outraged.  We  chain  and  cage 
the  wild  things,  and  shriek  for  freedom  of  thought 
and  action.     Verily  this  is  a  strange  world! 

I  talked  with  one  of  the  little  girls  about  the 
coon.  She  told  me  his  story  and  said  they  called 
him  "Tip."  My  heart  went  out  to  him,  and  I 
longed  to  take  him  under  my  coat,  carry  him  into 
the  deep  woods,  and  bid  him  God  speed.  He 
probably  would  have  bitten  me  had  I  attempted 
it,  but  in  this  he  would  have  been  justified  from 
his  point  of  view,  for  he  had  never  had  a  chance 
in  his  despoiled  life  to  learn  that  there  could  be 
sympathy  in  a  human  touch.  In  this  poor  Tip  is 
not  alone  in  the  world. 

Time  slumbers  in  the  back  country.  The 
weekly  paper  is  the  only  printed  source  of  news 
from  the  outside,  and,  with  the  addition  of  a 
monthly  farm  magazine,  with  its  woman's  de- 
partment, constitutes  the  literature  of  the  home. 
These  periodicals  are  read  by  the  light  of  the  big 
kerosene  lamp  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  the  facts  and  opinions  found  in  them 
become  gospel. 

[203] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  country  village  is  perhaps  a  couple  of  miles 
farther  inland.  There  is  a  water-mill  on  the  little 
river,  and  bags  of  wheat  and  corn  are  taken 
to  it  to  be  ground.  The  miller — sleepy-eyed  and 
white — comes  out  and  helps  to  unload  the  incom- 
ing grain,  or  deposit  the  flour  or  meal  in  the  back 
part  of  the  wagon. 

The  general  store  and  post-office  is  on  the  main 
road,  near  the  mill.  The  proprietor  is  the  oracle 
of  the  community,  and  a  fountain  of  wit  and  wis- 
dom. The  store  is  the  clearing-house  for  the  news 
and  gossip  of  the  passing  days. 

A  weather-beaten  sign  across  the  front  of  the 
building  reads,  "THE  CENTER  OF  THE  World/' 
The  owner  declares  that  "this  must  be  so,  fer  the 
edges  of  it  are  just  the  same  distance  off  from  the 
store,  no  matter  which  way  ye  look." 

There  is  much  unconscious  philosophy  in  the 
quaintly  humorous  sign,  for,  after  all,  how  little 
we  realize  the  immensity  of  the  material  and  intel- 
lectual world  that  is  beyond  our  own  horizon. 
The  homely  wit  touches  incisively  one  of  the 
foibles  of  human  kind. 

Elihu   Baxter  Brown,  the  storekeeper,   is  well 

[204] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

along  in  years.  He  is  tall,  somewhat  stoop- 
shouldered,  and  his  eyes  look  quizzically  out  of 
narrow  slits.    His  heavy  gray  mustache  dominates 


tfGRLD 


ii 


THE "GENERAL  STORE" 


his  face,  the  cumbersome  ornament  suggesting  a 
pair  of  frayed  lambrequins.  He  lives  in  a  little 
old-fashioned  house  that  sets  back  in  a  yard  next 
his  store.  A  quiet  gray-haired  woman,  with  a 
kindly  face,  sits  sewing  in  the  shade  near  the  back 
door.  They  walked  to  the  home  of  the  minister 
fifteen  miles  away,  to  be  married,  over  fifty  years 

[205] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

ago.  They  trudged  back  in  the  afternoon  and 
began  their  lives  together  in  the  humble  frame 
house  that  now  shows  the  touch  of  decay  and  the 
scars  of  winter  storms. 


THE  STOREKEEPER 


The  small  trees  that  they  planted  around  it  have 
grown  tall  enough  almost  to  hide  the  quiet  home 
among  their  shadows.  Little  patches  of  sunlight 
that  have  stolen  through  the  leaves  are  scattered 

[206] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

over  the  roof  on  bright  days,  like  happy  hours  in 
solemn  lives. 

In  a  sealed  glass  jar  on  a  "what-not"  in  a  corner 
of  the  front  room  is  a  hard  queer-looking  lump, 
encrusted  with  dry  mold,  a  fragment  of  the  wed- 
ding cake  of  half  a  century  ago,  which  has  been 
faithfully  kept  and  cherished  through  the  years. 
To  the  world  outside  it  is  meaningless;  here  it  is 
sacred. 

The  little  things  to  which  sentiment  can  cling 
are  the  anchorages  of  our  hearts.  They  keep  us 
from  drifting  too  far  away,  and  they  call  to  us 
when  we  have  wandered.  The  small  piece  of 
wedding  cake — gray  like  the  heads  of  those  who 
reverence  it — has  helped  to  prolong  the  echoes  of 
the  chimes  of  years  ago.  It  was  a  rough  gnarled 
hand  which  carefully  put  the  glass  jar  back  into  its 
place  after  it  was  shown,  but  it  was  a  tender  and 
beautiful  thought  that  kept  it  there. 

The  old  man  is  now  seventy-six.  He  says  that 
sometimes  he  is  only  about  thirty,  and  at  other 
times  he  is  over  a  hundred — it  all  depends  on  the 
weather  and  the  condition  of  his  rheumatism. 

[207] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"When  I  git  up  in  the  mornin',"  said  he,  "I 
first  find  out  how  my  rheumatism  is,  then  I  take 
a  look  at  the  weather,  an'  figger  out  what  kind 
of  a  day  it's  goin'  to  be.  If  it's  goin'  to  rain  I  let 
'er  rain,  an'  if  it  ain't,  all  well  an'  good.  Business 
is  pretty  slow  when  it  rains,  an'  when  its  ten  or 
fifteen  below  in  the  winter,  they  ain't  no  business 
at  all.  When  it  gits  like  that  I  hole  up  like  a 
woodchuck,  an'  set  in  the  back  part  o'  the  store 
in  my  high-chair,  an'  make  poetry  an'  read.  I 
don't  like  to  do  too  much  readin',  fer  readin'  rots 
the  mind,  an'  Ed  rather  be  waitin'  on  people  com- 
in'  in.  Most  gen'rally  a  lot  o'  the  old  cods  that 
live  'round  'ere  drop  in  an'  we  talk  things  over. 

"This  rheumatism  o'  mine  is  a  queer  thing.  Ell 
tell  ye  sumpen  confidential.  You  prob'ly  won't  be- 
lieve it,  an'  I  wouldn't  want  what  I  say  to  git 
out  'cause  its  so  improb'le,  an'  it  might  hurt  my 
credit,  but  Eve  bin  cured  o'  my  rheumatism  twice 
by  carryin'  a  petrified  potato  in  my  pocket.  An 
old  friend  of  mine,  Catfish  John's  got  it  now,  an' 
I  don't  want  to  take  it  away  from  'im  as  long  as 
it's  helpin'  'im,  but  when  'e  gits  through  with  it, 
Em  goin'  to  have  it  back  on  the  job,  an'  you  bet 

[208] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

I'll  be  hoppin'  "round  'ere  as  lively  as  a  cricket. 
The  potato  '11  prob'ly  be  'ere  next  week.  I've 
had  it  fer  ten  years,  an'  it  beats  everything  I've 
ever  tried." 

I  asked  the  old  man  to  allow  me  to  see  some 
of  the  poetry  he  had  "made,"  and  thereby  opened 
up  a  literary  mine.  The  request  touched  a  tender 
chord  and  I  was  ushered  back  to  a  worn  desk 
of  antique  pattern  in  the  rear  of  the  store.  He 
raised  the  lid  and  extracted  the  treasure.  A  book 
had  been  removed  from  its  binding,  and  the  covers 
converted  into  a  portfolio.  He  gently  removed 
about  a  hundred  sheets  of  paper  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes,  covered  with  closely  written  matter. 
Some  of  the  spelling  would  have  shocked  the  shade 
of  Lindley  Murray,  and  made  it  glad  that  he  had 
passed  away,  and  some  of  it  would  have  made  a 
champion  of  spelling  reform  quite  happy.  It  was 
vers  libre  of  the  most  malignant  type.  Rhymes 
were  freely  distributed  at  picturesque  random,  and 
while  the  ideas,  rhythm,  and  meter  were  quite 
lame  at  times,  much  of  the  verse  was  better  than 
some  recently  published  imagist  poetry,  which 
contains  none  of  these  things.     Humor  and  pathos 

[209] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

were  intermingled.  Sometimes  there  was  much 
humor  where  pathos  was  intended,  and  often  real 
pathos  lurked  among  the  lighter  lines. 

There  are  many  singers  who  are  never  heard. 
Melodies  in  impenetrable  forests  and  trills  that 
float  on  desert  air  are  for  those  who  sing,  and 
not  for  those  who  listen.  A  happy  soul  may  pour 
forth  impassioned  song  in  solitude,  for  the  joy  of 
the  singing,  and  a  solitary  bard  may  distil  his  fancy 
upon  pages  that  are  for  him  alone. 

The  verse  of  Elihu  Baxter  Brown  is  its  own 
and  only  excuse  for  being.  It  has  solaced  the  still 
hours,  and  if  its  creator  has  been  its  only  reader, 
he  has  been  most  appreciative. 

A  touching  lay  depicts  his  elation  upon  the  de- 
parture of  his  wife  "in  a  autobeel"  on  a  long  visit 
to  distant  relatives,  but  the  joy  prevails  only  dur- 
ing the  first  six  lines.  The  remaining  thirty  are 
devoted  to  sorrow  and  "lonely  misery  as  I  walketh 
the  street,"  and  end  with  "when  will  she  be  back 
I  wonder?"  He  falls  into  a  "reverree"  and  from 
under  its  gentle  spell  the  virile  lines,  "The  brite 
moon  makes  a  strong  impress  on  me,"  and  "I've 
named  my  pet  hen  after  thee,"  float  into  the  world. 

[210] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

With  "eyes  full  of  weep"  he  reflects  that  "some- 
times she's  cold  as  all  git  out,"  and  further  on  he 
wishes  that  his  "loved  one  was  a  pie,"  so  as  to 
facilitate  immediate  and  affectionate  assimilation. 

He  bids  the  world  to  "go  on  with  its  music  and 
kink  it  another  note  higher."  In  later  lines  he 
naively  admits  that  "of  all  the  poets  I  love  myself 
the  best."  Alas,  he  has  much  company!  This 
effusion  ends  with  "Gosh,  I  can't  finish  this  poetry 
till  I  pull  myself  together." 

War,  love,  spring,  and  beautiful  snow  flow 
through  the  limping  measures.  There  are  odes 
to  the  sun,  the  rain,  and  to  his  old  bob-tailed  gray 
cat,  "Tobunkus,"  who  drowses  peacefully  on  the 
counter  near  the  scales. 

The  inspection  of  the  poems  led  to  the  exhibi- 
tion of  his  box  of  relics  and  curios,  which  he 
greatly  valued.  Among  the  carefully  ticketed  and 
labeled  items,  which  we  spread  out  on  the  coun- 
ter, was  a  small  chip  from  Libby  Prison,  a  frag- 
ment of  stone  picked  up  near  the  National  Capitol, 
a  shark's  tooth,  some  Indian  arrow-heads,  an  iron 
ring  from  a  slave  auction  pen  of  ante-bellum 
days,  a  chip  from  the  pilot  house  of  a  steamboat 

[211] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

that  was  wrecked  sixty  years  ago  on  the  Atlantic 
coast,  the  dried  stump  of  a  cigar  which  had  been 
given  to  him  when  he  visited  a  Russian  man-of- 
war  in  Boston  harbor  in  1859,  and  many  other 
odds  and  ends  that  were  of  priceless  value  to  him. 

I  picked  up  a  small,  round  piece  of  wood,  which 
he  told  me  was  the  most  remarkable  and  inter- 
esting relic  of  the  whole  lot.  "That,"  said  he,  "is 
a  piece  of  the  first  shaving  brush  I  ever  shaved 
with" — a  fact  fully  as  important  as  most  things, 
seemingly  significant  at  present,  will  be  a  century 
hence.  This  wonderful  object  completed  the  ex- 
hibition, and  the  collection  was  carefully  put  away. 

The  interior  of  the  store  was  rather  gloomy, 
badly  ventilated,  and  was  pervaded  with  number- 
less and  commingled  odors.  I  could  distinguish 
kerosene,  dead  tobacco-smoke,  stale  vegetables, 
damp  dry-goods,  and  smoked  herrings,  but  the 
rest  of  the  indescribable  medley  of  smells  baffled 
analysis. 

The  stock  of  merchandise  was  varied,  but  there 
was  very  little  of  any  one  kind,  except  plug  to- 
bacco. Over  a  case  containing  several  large  boxes 
of  this  necessity  of  life  in  the  back  country  was  a 

[212] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

strip  of  cardboard,  on  which  was  inscribed,  "Don't 
use  the  nasty  stuff."  Under  a  wall-lamp  was  an- 
other placard,  "This  flue  don't  smoke,  neither 
should  you."  Other  examples  of  the  proprietor's 
wit  were  scattered  along  the  edges  of  the  shelves, 
and  on  the  walls,  and  helped  to  impart  an  indi- 
vidual character  to  the  place.  Among  them  were, 
"Don't  be  bashful.  You  can  have  anything  you 
can  pay  for."  "This  store  is  not  run  by  a  trust." 
"No  setting  on  the  counter — this  means  you!" 
"Credit  given  only  on  Sundies,  when  the  store  is 
closed."  "Don't  talk  about  the  war — it  makes  me 
sick." 

A  large  portion  of  the  stock  was  in  cans.  Some 
of  them  had  evidently  been  on  the  shelves  for 
many  years.  There  were  cove  oysters,  sardines, 
and  tinned  meats  of  various  kinds,  with  badly  fly- 
specked  labels.  The  old  man  remarked  that  "some 
o'  them  air-tights  has  bin  on  hand  since  the  early 
eighties." 

The  humble  tin  can  has  been  one  of  the  impor- 
tant factors  in  the  progress  of  the  human  race. 
With  the  theodolite,  the  sextant,  and  the  rifle,  it 
has  been  carried  to  the  waste  places  of  the  earth, 

[213] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

and  because  of  it  they  have  bloomed.  Tin  cans 
have  lined  the  trails  to  unknown  lands,  and  they 
have  been  left  at  both  of  the  poles.  The  invader 
has  flung  them  along  his  remorseless  path  when  he 
has  gone  to  murder  quiet  distant  peoples  whose 
religion  differed  from  his  own,  and  they  have  thus 
been  made  "instruments  of  the  Lord's  mercy." 
They  lie  on  ghastly  battlefields,  mingled  with 
splintered  bones,  where  a  civilization,  of  which 
we  have  boasted,  has  left  them. 

They  are  scattered  over  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
float  languidly  in  the  currents  of  uncharted  rivers, 
and  rust  on  the  sands  of  the  deserts.  They  are 
hiding-places  for  tropical  reptiles  in  tangled  mo- 
rasses, and  prowling  beasts  sniff  at  them  curiously 
in  deserted  camps  along  the  outer  rims  of  the 
world. 

They  symbolize  the  ingenuity  of  the  white  man, 
and  in  them  has  reposed  the  remains  of  every  kind 
of  fish,  reptile,  bird  and  beast  that  he  has  used  for 
food.  The  aged  bull,  the  scrawny  family  cow, 
the  venerable  rooster,  the  faithful  superannuated 
hen,  the  senile  billy  goat,  and  other  obsolete  do- 
mestic   animals,    have    found    a    temporary    tomb 

[214] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

within  mysterious  walls  of  tin,  and  have  helped 
to  feed  others  than  those  who  canned  them.  They 
enclose  fruit  and  vegetables  that  could  not  be  sold 
fresh,  and  in  them  they  go  to  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth. 

It  was  indeed  strange  destiny  that  took  the  sar- 
dine, flashing  his  bright  sides  in  the  blue  Medit- 
erranean, and  left  him  immured  on  a  musty  shelf 
in  a  store  in  the  back  country.  If  he,  with  the 
contents  of  the  cans  around  him,  could  return  to 
life,  there  would  be  a  motley  company. 

Perhaps,  in  quiet  midnight  hours,  wraiths  come 
out  of  the  tins  and  play  in  the  moonbeams  that 
filter  through  the  dusty  windows.  They  may  all 
have  been  there  so  long  that  social  caste  has  been 
established.  The  fish,  lobsters,  cove  oysters  and 
clams,  being  sea  people,  probably  hold  aloof. 
This  they  may  well  do,  as  they  are  on  the  upper 
shelves. 

The  elderly  domestic  animals  may  have  a  digni- 
fied stratum  of  their  own,  in  which  the  afTairs  of 
the  old  families  can  be  discussed,  while  those  who 
were  feathered  in  life  possibly  form  another  pale 

[215] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

group  that  devotes  itself  entirely  to  questions  of 
personal  adornment. 

Behind  the  red  labels  on  the  lower  shelves  are 
the  devilled  ham  and  the  pig's  feet.  The  goblins 
from  these  may  hold  high  carnival  in  the  silvery 
light — the  frolics  of  the  indigestibles — and  their 
antics  may  last  until  the  gray  of  the  morning  comes. 

Nameless  elfs  may  appear  in  the  little  throng. 
They  are  from  the  soups,  and  have  so  many  com- 
ponent parts  that  they  know  not  what  they  are. 
Naturally  they  may  precede  the  others,  but  if  they 
are  in  the  ghostly  circle,  they  are  not  of  it. 

Probably  the  specters  from  the  canned  hash  are 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  scale. 

I  suggested  to  the  old  man  that  all  these  things 
might  be  happening  while  he  slumbered,  but  he 
declared  that  I  was  mistaken.  "There's  never  bin 
any  doin's  like  that  goin'  on  'round  the  store," 
said  he. 

Figuratively,  it  might  be  said  that  many  of  us 
obtain  most  of  our  intellectual  food  from  cans. 
The  diet  may  be  varied  occasionally  by  fresh  nu- 
trients, but  too  often  we  rely  upon  products  bear- 
ing established  trade-marks  for  our  mental  suste- 

[216] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

nance.  The  rows  of  labels,  honored  by  time  and 
dimmed  by  dust,  stand  like  tiers  of  skulls,  with 
their  eyeless  caverns  gravely  still — mute  symbols 
of  the  eternal  hours — as  if  staring  in  dull  mockery 
out  of  a  vanished  past.  Living  currents  flow 
around  us  unheeded.  We  absorb  predigested 
thought  to  repletion,  and  neglect  vibrant  mental 
forces,  that  through  disuse  become  depleted,  in- 
stead of  enriching  them  with  the  study  of  the  green 
and  growing  things  that  have  not  been  put  in  cans. 
"About  ev'ry  third  year,"  said  the  old  man, 
"business  gits  worse'n  ever,  an'  that's  when  a  hoss 
trader  named  Than  Gandy  comes  'round.  He  lives 
some'rs  in  the  eastern  part  o'  the  state,  an'  after 
'e's  bin  through  'ere  'e  waits  long  enough  fer 
most  of  'em  to  fergit  'im  before  'e  comes  agin. 
He  starts  out  from  where  'e  lives  with  a  sulky, 
an'  a  crow  bait  hoss,  an'  about  five  dollars.  He 
spends  a  couple  o'  months  on  'is  travels  among  the 
little  places  away  from  the  railroads,  an'  when  'e 
gits  through  with  'is  trip,  'e  has  a  string  o'  seven 
er  eight  hosses,  an'  four  er  five  little  wagons  an' 
buggies,  an'  a  lot  o'  harnesses  an'  whips  an'  calves 
an'  sheep,  an'  a  big  wad  o'  money.     He's  got  all 

[217] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

them  things  to  boot  in  trades  'e  keeps  makin'.  He 
beats  ev'rybody  'e  runs  up  ag'inst,  an'  when  'e  quits 
'round  'ere  nobody's  got  any  money  left  to  buy 
things  with.  They  don't  know  what's  happened 
to  'em  till  'e's  away  off.  When  'e  stops  at  the 
store,  he  gen'rally  trades  me  sumpen  fer  what  'e 
wants. 

"Once  Jedge  Blossom  traded  hosses  with  'im 
when  'e  was  piped,  an'  gave  'im  ten  dollars  to 
boot.  He  got  a  bum  animal  shifted  on  'im,  an' 
when  'e  sobered  up,  'e  sent  Gandy  a  bill  fer  fifteen 
dollars  fer  legal  advice,  an'  the  advice  was  not  to 
come  into  this  part  o'  the  country  any  more." 

The  old  man  told  me  that  he  was  born  in  a  small 
town  in  Massachusetts. 

"I  was  named  after  the  preacher  of  our  church. 
He  was  a  great  man  an'  'is  eloquence  was  won- 
derful. His  name  was  the  Reverend  Elihu  Bax- 
ter, an'  'e  used  to  go  up  into  the  pulpit,  an'  lean 
'is  stummick  'way  out  over  it,  an'  say,  Wow  you 
listen  to  me 7 — an'  that's  the  way  'e  d rawed  'em  to 
'im.  When  'e'd  first  begin,  the  church  'ud  be  so 
still  that  you  could  hear  the  flies  buzz,  an'  'is  voice 
would  sound  all  hollow,  like  'e  was  talkin'  into  a 

[218] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

big  dish-pan.  We  don't  have  no  more  preachers 
like  'im  now  days,  an1  people  don't  go  to  church 
no  more  like  they  did  then.  We  don't  have  no 
more  old-fashioned  Sundays.  There's  too  many 
newspapers,  an'  what  they  have  to  say  takes  the 
place  o'  what  we  used  to  hear  in  the  pulpit.  What 
the  preachers  say  now  days  ain't  interestin'  any 
more.  People  rest  an'  play  on  Sunday  now,  instid 
o'  bein'  solemn  an'  sad  an'  settin'  'round  an'  lis- 
tenin'  over  an'  over  to  somebody  tellin'  about  them 
three  fellers  that  was  in  the  fiery  furnace." 

He  felt  deeply  his  responsibility  as  a  representa- 
tive of  the  national  government.  The  post-office 
department,  with  its  rows  of  glass-fronted  mail 
boxes,  numbered  from  i  to  40,  was  located  at  the 
right  of  the  store  entrance.  The  mail  bag  was 
brought  daily  from  the  railroad  station,  five  miles 
away,  by  a  fat-faced  young  man  in  blue  overalls 
and  a  hickory  shirt.  His  elbows  flopped  madly 
up  and  down  as  his  horse  galloped  along  the  high- 
way with  the  precious  burden  across  the  pommel. 
He  made  another  trip  at  night  with  the  out-going 
mail,  and  when  the  hoof-beats  were  heard  on  the 
road,  there  would  be  many  glances  at  the  clocks 

[219] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

in  the  houses  along  his  route,  and  the  fact  approv- 
ingly noted,  that  "Bill's  on  time  to-night,  all 
right." 

There  are  many  people  in  the  world  who  win 
lasting  laurels  by  being  "on  time."  Some  do  it 
quietly,  and  others  by  flopping  their  arms  vio- 
lently, to  the  accompaniment  of  resonant  hoof- 
beats,  as  "Bill"  does,  but  being  "on  time"  is  essen- 
tial to  success  in  life.  "Bill"  may  have  no  other 
argument  to  present  for  his  eventual  redemption 
than  the  fact  that  he  was  always  "on  time,"  but  it 
cannot  fail  to  be  powerful  and  convincing. 

"I  would  like  this  postmaster  business,"  said  the 
old  man,  "if  it  wasn't  fer  all  the  books  I  have  to 
write  in  an'  the  blanks  I  have  to  fill  out.  It  keeps 
people  comin'  in,  but  sometimes  I  have  to  set  up 
pretty  near  all  night  writin'  out  things  fer  the  gov- 
'ament.  I  don't  keep  no  books  fer  the  store,  fer 
I  never  sell  nothin'  'cept  fer  cash,  or  fer  sumpen 
that's  brought  in,  an'  I  keep  my  expense  account  in 
my  hat.  If  the  sheriff  ever  comes  'round  'ere  to 
close  me  up,  'e  won't  find  no  books  to  go  by.  I 
spend  all  the  money  that  gits  in  the  drawer,  an' 
if  what's  in  the  store  should  burn  up,  I'd  be  ahead 

[220] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

'cause  I've  got  insurance,  an'  I'd  git  it  all  at  once; 
so  I  guess  I'm  all  right.  I  ain't  got  much  to  show 
fer  my  life,  'cept  a  grin,  but  that's  sumpen. 
Some  day  I'll  have  all  the  poetry  I've  made 
printed  into  a  volume  that'll  be  put  on  sale,  an' 
I'll  have  a  reg'lar  income  an'  I  won't  have  to  work 
no  more. 

"I'm  keepin'  a  first  class  place  here.  There's 
a  lot  o'  this  new-fangled  stuff  that  I've  stopped 
carryin'.  People  always  buy  it  out  when  they 
come  in,  an'  I  have  to  keep  gittin'  more  all  the 
time.  If  I  don't  have  them  things  they  ask  fer, 
they'll  prob'ly  buy  sumpen  that's  already  on  hand. 
I  can't  please  ev'rybody  all  the  time,  or  I'd  be 
worked  to  death.  I  don't  keep  no  likker,  but  any- 
body can  git  most  anything  else  here  that'll  make 
'em  smell  like  a  man,  an'  I  don't  sell  no  cigarettes. 
A  feller  come  in  'ere  with  one  once,  an'  when  'e 
went  out  'e  left  'is  punk  on  the  edge  of  a  pile  o' 
paper.  After  a  while  some  o'  the  bunch  out  in 
front  noticed  some  fire,  an'  it  pretty  near  burnt  up 
the  store,  an'  besides  they  smell  like  a  burnt  offer- 
ing, an'  I  don't  like  'em." 

I  asked  him  if  he  ever  went  over  to  the  lake. 

[221] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"Not  fer  about  fifteen  years.  We  all  drove  over 
there  fer  a  bath,  an'  I  took  a  bad  cold  an'  I  haven't 
bin  there  since.  This  talk  o'  washin'  all  the  time 
is  nonsence.  Jedge  Blossom's  got  a  big  tin  bath 
tub  up  to  his  place,  that's  painted  green,  an'  'e  gits 
in  it  an'  sloshes  'round  ev'ry  Saturday  night  when 
Vs  home,  but  when  Monday  mornin'  comes  'e 
don't  look  no  better'n  anybody  else." 

During  one  afternoon  that  I  spent  with  him  in 
the  rear  of  the  store,  he  showed  me  some  of  the 
literature  which  he  had  taken  down  from  the  stock 
on  one  of  the  upper  shelves,  and  had  been  reading 
during  the  winter.  The  pile  consisted  of  old-fash- 
ioned dime  novels  of  years  ago,  with  their  multi- 
colored illustrated  paper  covers.  Among  the  titles, 
and  on  the  blood-curdling,  well-thumbed  pages,  I 
found  names  that  were  once  familiar  and  much 
beloved.  "Lantern-Jawed  Bob,"  "Snake  Eye," 
"Deadwood  Dick,"  "Iron  Hand,"  "Navajo  Bill," 
"Shadow  Bill,"  "The  Forest  Avenger,"  "Eagle- 
Eyed  Zeke,"  "The  War  Tiger  of  the  Modocs," 
"The  Mountain  Demon,"  and  many  other  forgot- 
ten heroes  of  boyhood  days,  "advanced  coolly  and 
stealthily"  out  of  the  mists  of  the  dim  past,  and 

[  222  1 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

once  more  they  scalped,  robbed,  trailed,  circum- 
vented bloodthirsty  pursuers,  had  hair-breadth 
escapes,  mocked  death,  rescued  peerless  maidens 
from  savage  redskins  in  the  wilderness,  and  finally 
married  them,  as  of  yore. 

The  romance  in  the  pile  was  irretrievably  bad, 
but  it  recalled  happy  memories.  It  was  not  sur- 
prising that  the  old  man  was  impressed  with  the 
idea  that  "too  much  readin'  rots  the  mind,"  when 
spring  came,  and  he  had  finished  the  stack. 

Around  the  big  stove,  on  chilly  days,  the  owners 
of  the  chin  whiskers  congregate,  with  cob  pipes 
and  juicy  plug.  They  contribute  liberally  to  the 
square  boxes  filled  with  sawdust  that  serve  as  cus- 
pidors. In  this  solemn  circle  the  great  political 
problems  of  the  nation  are  considered  and  solved. 

The  gossip  of  the  township  is  exchanged,  and 
the  personal  frailties  of  absent  ones  discussed.  The 
local  Munchausen  tells  wondrous  tales  of  his  cow, 
that  stands  out  in  the  river  and  is  milked  by  hungry 
fish  that  wait  among  the  lilies,  and  of  hailstorms 
he  has  seen  that  have  demolished  brickyards. 

A  projected  barn,  the  sale  of  a  horse  or  cow, 
the  repairs  on  a  wagon,  the  prospects  of  frost  or 

[223] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

rain,  the  crops,  the  price  of  hogs,  the  tariff,  the 
trusts,  the  rascality  of  the  railroads,  and  many 
other  subjects,  are  mingled  with  the  gossip  of  the 
neighborhood.  These  matters  are  all  deeply  pon- 
dered over.     They  talk  about  their  rheumatism, 


THE    PESSIMISTS 


the  "cricks"  in  their  backs,  their  coughs,  their 
aches  and  pains,  and  the  foolish  vagaries  of  the 
"women  folks."  They  buy  patent  medicines,  and 
they  bathe  only  when  they  get  caught  in  the  rain. 
A  slatternly  looking  woman  comes  in,  buys  some 

[224] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

calico,  thread,  two  yards  of  ribbon,  and  some  hooks 
and  eyes.  When  she  departs  some  one  remarks, 
"Wonder  wot  she's  goin'  to  make  now!"  From 
that  the  conversation  drifts  to  "the  feller  that  left 
'er  about  two  years  ago."  The  proprietors  of  the 
chin  whiskers  all  knew  "when  'e  fust  come  'round, 
'e  wasn't  any  good,"  and  the  sage  prophecies  of 
by-gone  days  are  now  fully  verified.  The  demerits 
of  a  certain  horse,  which  he  had  once  sold  to  one 
of  the  prophets,  are  again  recounted,  and  the  gen- 
eral opinion  is  that  after  the  delinquent  "got 
through  with  the  lawsuit  'e  was  mixed  up  in,  'e 
went  out  west  som'ers  with  the  money  'is  lawyer 
didn't  git.  Anyhow,  'e  was  no  good."  Nobody 
is  "any  good." 

When  the  time  comes  to  "git  home  to  supper," 
the  dilapidated  vehicles  begin  to  crawl  out  into 
the  fading  light  and  disappear.  They  carry  the 
pessimists  and  the  few  necessaries  which  they  have 
bought  at  the  store — some  molasses,  sugar,  tea  and 
coffee,  possibly  a  new  shovel,  some  nails,  and  al- 
ways a  plentiful  supply  of  plug  tobacco,  a  great 
deal  of  which  is  filtered  into  the  soil  of  the  back 
country.     Some  eggs,  butter,  vegetables,  and  other 

[225] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

produce  of  the  little  farm  has  been  left  in  pay- 
ment. 

After  the  tired  horses  are  unhitched   and  fed, 
the  exciting  gossip  is  retold  at  the  supper  table.    A 


THEY   "CRAWL  OUT    INTO   THE   FADING   LIGHT" 

few  chores  are  done,  an  hour  or  so  is  spent  around 
the  big  lamp,  and  another  eventful  day  has  closed. 
A  week  may  pass  before  another  trip  is  made  to 
the  sleepy  village. 

[226] 


THE    BACK    COUNTRY 

Those  who  are  gone  are  under  the  tall  grasses 
and  wild  flowers  on  the  hill  near  the  woods,  be- 
yond the  little  weather-beaten  country  church. 
The  iron  bell  has  tolled  for  them  as  they  were  laid 
away,  and  now  that  it  is  all  over,  it  is  the  same 
with  them  as  if  they  had  been  monarchs  or  mil- 
lionaires. 

A  touching,  if  crude,  epitaph  can  be  deciphered 
on  one  of  the  gray  mossy  stones  through  the  crum- 
bling fence.  After  the  name  and  the  final  date 
are  the  lines, 

"Shed  not  for  me  the  bitter  tears 
Nor  fill  the  heart  with  vain  regrets. 
'Tis  but  the  casket  that  lies  here, 
The  gems  that  filled  them  sparkles  yet." 

and  lower,  under  a  pair  of  clasped  hands,  "We 
will  meet  again,"  and  it  may  be  that  a  mighty 
truth  is  on  the  stone. 


[227] 


M 


1 


CHAPTER    XII 
JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

THE  road  leading  from  the  lake,  through 
the  sand  hills,  and  the  low  stretches  of  the 
back  country,  over  to  the  sleepy  village, 
is  broken — and  badly  broken — by  numerous  sec- 
tions of  corduroy  reinforcements,  which  have  been 
laid  in  the  marshy  places,  across  small  creeks  and 
quagmires.  The  portion  of  the  road  near  the  lake 
is  seldom  traveled.  Occasionally,  during  the  hot 
weather,  a  wagon-load  of  people  will  come  over 
from  the  sleepy  village,  and  from  the  little  farms 
along  the  road,  and  go  into  the  lake  to  get  cool. 
They  will  then  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  swelter- 
ing on  the  hot  sand  to  get  warm,  and  return  at 
night. 

Beyond  the  marsh,  perhaps  half  way  to  the  vil- 
lage, is  the  residence  and  office  of  Judge  Cassius 
Blossom,  the  local  Dogberry,  the  repository  of  the 
conflicting  interests,  and  final  arbiter  in  most  of  the 
petty  dissensions  of  the  sparsely  settled  country 
in  which  he  lives. 

[229] 


OLD  SETTLERS  IN  THE  BACK  COUNTRY 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

The  "ledge''  was  a  faithful  member  of  the  sol- 
emn conclaves  of  the  wise  ones  with  the  chin  whis- 
kers at  the  general  store  in  the  sleepy  village, 
where  he  often  reversed  the  decisions  of  the  su- 
preme court.  His  chair  in  the  charmed  circle 
around  the  big  old-fashioned  stove,  and  among  the 
sawdust  cuspidors,  in  winter,  and  out  on  the  plat- 
form under  the  awning  in  summer,  was  looked 
upon  as  the  resting-place  of  about  as  much  legal 
wisdom,  and  about  as  much  bad  whisky,  as  one 
man  could  comfortably  carry  around.  His  disser- 
tations were  always  anxiously  listened  to  and  ab- 
sorbed by  his  auditors,  each  according  to  his  ca- 
pacity. His  opinions  and  observations  were  vari- 
ously interpreted  to  the  home  firesides  around 
through  the  country  at  night,  according  to  the  in- 
tellectual limitations  of  the  narrator. 

"The  Jedge  says  that  they's  some  cases  that's 
agin  the  common  law,  an'  they's  some  cases  that's 
agin  the  stattoot  law,  but  about  this  'ere  case  he  was 
talkin'  about,  'e  said  'e'd  'ave  to  look  up  sumpen. 
He  told  about  a  case  where  some  feller  'ad  sued 
another  feller  fer  some  money  that  was  owin'  to 
'im,  but  'e'd  lost  the  notes,  but  'e  was  goin'   to 

[231] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

git  a  judgment  agin  this  feller  all  the  same,  an' 
make  a  levy  on  'im.  You  bet  I'm  goin'  to  be  thar 
when  this  case  comes  up  in  court  an'  see  wot's 
doin'.  The  Jedge  is  sharper'n  a  tack,  an'  you  bet 
them  fellers  over  to  the  county  seat  ain't  goin'  to 
put  nothin'  over  on'  im,  if  'e's  sober.  He'll  make 
points  on  all  of  'em,  but  if  'e  goes  over  thar  an' 
sets  'round  Fogarty's  place  boozin',  'e'll  lose  out.'1 

In  talking  with  Sipes,  one  afternoon,  about  some 
of  the  roads  in  the  back  country,  he  suggested  that 
we  take  a  walk  over  to  the  Judge's  house  and  see 
him.  "The  Jedge  has  got  a  map  that's  got  all 
them  things  on  it.  The  ol'  feller  deals  in  law,  an' 
land,  an'  fire  insurance,  an'  everythin'  else." 

After  Sipes  had  carefully  shut  the  door  of  his 
shanty,  and  secured  it  with  an  old  iron  padlock, 
we  started  on  our  journey.  He  said  that  he  gen- 
erally locked  the  place  up  when  he  went  away,  as 
"there  was  sometimes  some  fellers  snoopin'  'round 
that  might  swipe  sumpen,  an'  the  Jedge  told  me 
oncet  that  if  anybody  ever  busted  open  the  lock, 
it  would  show  bulgarious  intent,  an'  they'd  git  sent 
up  fer  it  if  they  ever  got  caught,  but  if  they  went  in 

[232] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

when  the  place  wasn't  locked,  it  was  trespass  on 
the  case,  or  sumpen  like  that.'1 

We  trudged  along  through  the  deep  sand  for 
half  a  mile  or  so,  and  then  turned  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  dunes  where  the  road  came  in.  Our 
walk  led  through  the  broken  wet  country  for  about 
a  mile  before  we  came  to  more  solid  ground.  On 
the  way  across  the  marshy  strip  the  old  man 
pointed  out  familiar  spots  where  he  had  "lam- 
basted pretty  near  a  whole  flock  o'  ducks  at  one 
shot."  In  another  place  he  had  once  spent  nearly 
an  hour  in  "sneakin'  up  on  a  bunch  o'  wooden 
decoys  that  some  feller  had  out,  an'  when  I  shot 
into  'em  you'd  a  thought  a  ton  o'  lead  'ad  struck 
a  lumber  pile.  The  feller  yelled  when  I  fired. 
He  was  back  in  some  weeds,  an'  I  guess  'e  was 
afraid  there  was  goin'  to  be  sumpen  doin'  on  'im 
with  the  other  bar'l  if  'e  didn't  yell." 

A  tamarack  swamp,  about  half  a  mile  away, 
was  a  favorite  haunt  for  rabbits  in  the  winter. 
He  often  went  over  there  on  the  ice  after  there 
had  been  a  light  fall  of  snow. 

"Them  little  beasts  are  pretty  foxy,  but  I  just  go 
over  there  an'  set  still,  an'  when  one  of  'em  comes 

[233] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

hoppin'  'round  out  in  the  open,  I  shoot  the  fillin' 
out  of  'im.  I've  got  as  many  as  twenty  there  in 
one  day. 

"When  we  git  over  to  the  Jedge's  house,  don't 
you  go  ag'inst  none  o'  that  whisky  that  'e's  got  in 
a  big  black  bottle  in  the  under  part  of  'is  desk. 
He  calls  the  bottle  'Black  Betty,'  an'  it's  ter'ble 
stuff.  It  kicks  pretty  near  as  hard  as  my  ol'  scat- 
ter gun,  an'  'e  has  to  keep  a  glass  stopper  in  the 
bottle.  A  common  cork  would  be  et  up.  A  man 
that  laps  up  whisky  like  that  has  to  have  a  sheet- 
iron  stummick,  an'  I  guess  the  Jedge's  got  one 
all  right,  fer  'e's  bin  hittin'  it  fer  years. 

"He  fills  the  bottle  up  out  of  a  big  demijohn, 
that  'e  gits  loaded  up  from  a  partic'lar  bar'l  at 
Fogarty's  place  over  to  the  county  seat  when  'e 
goes  to  court,  an'  lots  o'  times  when  'e  don't  go 
to  court.  The  bar'l  replenishes  the  demijohn,  the 
demijohn  replenishes  Black  Betty,  an'  Black  Betty 
replenishes  the  Jedge,  an'  after  that  the  Jedge  has 
to  replenish  Fogarty — so  it  all  works  'round  natu- 
ral— an'  the  Jedge  keeps  a  skinful  all  the  time. 

"A  white  man  could  drink  the  grog  we  used  to 
have  on  the  ship  an'  still  see,  but  the  Jedge's  dope 

[234] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

would  make  a  hole  in  a  pine  board,  an'  you  pass 
it  by." 

This  I  solemnly  promised  to  do. 

"I  notice  that  them  fellers  that  take  up  stiddy 
boozin'  have  to  'tend  to  it  all  the  time.  When  ol' 
Jedge  Blossom  finds  out  that  them  law  cases  that 
'e's  always  talkin'  about  interferes  with  'is  boozin', 
'e'll  quit  monkeyin'  with  'em.  It  must  a  bin  a 
sweet  country  that  'e  bloomed  in.  Pretty  near 
every  time  I  go  to  see  'im,  'e  ain't  home.  They 
say  'e's  off  'tendin'  to  some  important  cases  before 
the  master  in  chancery.  Them  cases  is  prob'ly 
mostly  before  Black  Betty,  fer  I  notice  'e  always 
comes  home  from  'em  stewed,  an'  sometimes  'is 
horse  comes  home  alone  an'  'e  comes  later.  He 
takes  drinks  lots  o'  times  when  'e  don't  need  'em. 
He  just  drops  'em  in  to  hear  'em  spatter. 

"They'll  find  'im  in  a  catamose  condition  some 
day  when  'e's  over  to  the  county  seat,  that  'e  won't 
come  out  of,  an'  when  it's  all  over  they  can  dispose 
of  'is  remains  by  just  pourin'  'im  back  into  Fogar- 
ty's  bar'l.  All  that'll  be  left  of  'im'll  be  'is  thirst, 
an'  they'd  better  put  wot'll  be  left  of  'is  fire  insur- 
ance business  in  with  'im,  fer  'e'll  need  some." 

[235] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  old  man's  entertaining  review  of  the  frail- 
ties of  the  "Jedge,"  and  of  alcoholic  humanity  in 
general,  continued  until  we  arrived  at  our  des- 
tination. 

The  small  frame  house,  which  was  once  white, 
but  now  a  dingy  gray,  was  adorned  with  faded 
green  blinds.  It  stood  about  fifty  feet  back  from 
the  road.  Some  mournful  evergreens  stood  in 
painful  regularity  in  the  front  yard.  The  fence 
was  somewhat  dilapidated,  and  on  it  was  a  weath- 
er-beaten sign: 

Cassius  Blossom,  J. P., 

Attorney  and  Counsellor  at  Law, 

Notary  Public, 

Fire  Insurance,  Real  Estate. 

A  gravel  walk,  fringed  with  white  shells,  led 
from  the  rickety  gate  to  the  rather  ecclesiastical- 
looking  front  door.  Sipes  remarked  in  passing 
that  "them  white  shells  was  to  help  the  Jedge  steer 
'is  course  on  dark  nights,  when  'e  was  three  sheets 
in  the  wind,  an'  beatin'  up  aginst  it." 

There  was  a  brown  bell-handle  near  the  door, 
and  when  it  was  pulled  we  could  hear  a  prolonged, 
hoarse  tinkling  somewhere  off  in  the  rear  of  the 

[236] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

house.  We  soon  heard  footsteps,  and  a  forbidding- 
looking  female  opened  the  door.  She  was  quite 
tall  and  angular.  A  few  faded  freckles  around 
the  nose — a  mass  of  frowsy  red  hair,  liberally 
streaked  with  gray — a  general  untidiness — and  a 
glint  in  her  yellowish-brown  eyes,  as  she  peered 
out  at  us  over  her  brass-rimmed  spectacles,  pro- 
duced impressions  that  were  anything  but  assuring. 
On  being  admitted  to  the  house,  we  were  ush- 
ered into  the  "library,"  which  also  evidently  served 
as  a  dining-room  and  office.  A  round  table 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  covered  with  a 
soiled  red  and  white  fringed  table  cloth.  A  hair- 
cloth sofa,  with  some  broken  springs  and  bits  of 
excelsior  protruding  from  underneath,  occupied 
one  side  of  the  apartment,  and  there  were  several 
chairs  of  the  same  repellant  material.  A  narrow 
roll-top  combination  desk  and  bookcase,  freely 
splotched  with  ink-stains,  stood  near  the  window. 
Behind  the  dusty  glass  doors  of  the  bookcase  were 
a  few  well-worn  books,  bound  in  sheepskin.  The 
first  volume  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  a  copy 
of  Parsons  on  Contracts,  two  or  three  volumes  of 
court  reports,  and  the  Revised  Statutes  of  the  state, 
completed  the  assemblage  of  legal  lore. 

[237] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  pictures  on  the  walls  consisted  of  some 
stiff-looking  crayon  portraits  in  gloomy  frames, 
evidently  copied  from  old  photographs — all  of 
which  were  very  bad — another  somber  frame  con- 
taining a  fly-specked  steel  engraving  of  the  jus- 
tices of  the  U.  S.  Supreme  Court,  and  still  another, 
out  of  which  the  stern  and  noble  face  of  Daniel 
Webster  looked  into  the  room.  His  immeasurable 
services  to  his  country  did  not  prevent  him  from 
leaving  a  malign  influence  behind  him.  His  un- 
fortunate example  convinces  many  budding  states- 
men and  promising  lawyers  that  the  human  in- 
tellect is  not  soluble  in  alcohol,  and  they  are  lulled 
into  the  belief  that  the  brilliancy  of  his  mind  was 
not  dimmed  by  his  indulgences.  They  emulate  his 
weakness,  as  well  as  his  strength,  and  console  them- 
selves in  their  cups  with  the  greatness  of  Webster. 

The  "Jedge1'  sat  at  the  desk,  without  his  coat, 
writing,  his  back  toward  us.  His  shirt-sleeves, 
and  his  wide  stand-up  collar,  were  not  clean.  Evi- 
dently he  was  very  busy  and  must  not  be  disturbed 
just  yet.  With  a  solemn  wink  of  his  solitary  eye, 
and  an  expressive  gesture,  Sipes  attracted  my  at- 
tention to  a  faint  wreath  of  softly  ascending  smoke 

[238] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

issuing  from  a  cob  pipe,  which  was  lying  on  a 
window-sill  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room, 
which  suggested  that  the  important  business  at  the 
desk  may  have  commenced  when  the  bell   rang. 

Evidently  the  "Jedge"  appreciated  the  tactical 
advantage  which  preoccupation  always  establishes 
when  business  callers  come.  The  visitor,  in  being 
compelled  to  await  the  disposal  of  more  weighty 
matters,  is  duly  humbled  and  impressed  with  the 
fact  that,  at  least  so  far  as  time  is  concerned,  he 
is  a  suppliant  and  not  a  dictator. 

Dissimulation  is  an  universal  practice  of  man 
and  woman  kind.  A  pessimistic  student  of  the 
complexities  of  the  human  comedy  might,  with 
much  justice,  conclude  that  at  least  half  of  the  peo- 
ple on  the  globe— and  especially  of  those  who  are 
super-civilized — pretend,  to  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree, to  be  something  that  they  are  not,  and  the 
other  half  pretend  not  to  be  something  that  they 
are. 

Further  thought  upon  this  subject  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  "Jedge."  The  cane-seated  swivel 
chair  turned  with  a  loud  squeak,  and  we  were  be- 
fore the  disciple  of  Blackstone  &  Bacchus — that 

[239] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

famous  firm  whose  dissolution  the  shade  of  Web- 
ster will  never  permit. 

He  was  a  spare,  red-faced  man,  of  perhaps  sixty- 
five,  with  white  hair  and  tobacco-stained  whiskers. 
His  prominent  nose  appeared  to  be  a  little  swol- 
len and  wore  a  deep  blush.  With  a  learned  frown 
he  looked  out  of  his  deep-set  and  bloodshot  eyes, 
over  the  tops  of  his  spectacles.  His  voice  was 
deep  and  hoarse. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

It  was  afternoon,  but,  as  the  uncharitable  Sipes 
suggested  later,  "the  Jedge  prob'ly  hadn't  got 
home  last  night  yet,  or  mebbe  'e'd  just  got  up." 

"You  will  have  to  excuse  me  for  keeping  you 
waiting,  but  I've  just  been  preparing  the  final  pa- 
pers in  a  very  important  case  that  I've  got  to  file 
in  court  by  Saturday.  I've  had  to  work  on  them 
steadily  for  the  past  few  days,  as  there  are  some 
very  complicated  questions  of  law  involved,  and 
I've  had  to  look  up  a  lot  of  decisions.  I  am  now 
entirely  at  your  service." 

After  being  formally  introduced  by  my  friend 
Sipes,  I  explained  the  object  of  the  visit.     The 

[240] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

"Jedge"  was  very  cordial.  He  arose  from  his 
chair,  walked  impressively,  and  with  much  dig- 
nity, across  the  room,  resumed  his  cob  pipe,  which 
was  still  alive,  and  raised  the  lid  of  an  old  leather- 
covered  trunk,  bound  with  brass  nails.  After  a 
long  search  he  produced  the  desired  map  and 
spread  it  out  on  the  table. 

"Before  we  take  up  this  matter  of  the  roads,  I 
think,  gentlemen,  that  we  had  better  have  a  little 
refreshment." 

We  both  politely  declined  his  invitation  and  ex- 
pressed a  preference  for  some  cold  water.  He 
seemed  disappointed,  and,  with  a  surprised  and 
curious  glance  at  Sipes,  returned  to  the  desk, 
opened  one  of  the  lower  doors,  and  gently  lifted 
"Black  Betty"  out  of  the  gloom. 

"I  haven't  been  feeling  very  well  for  several 
days,  and  I've  had  some  pains  in  my  back.  If 
you'll  excuse  me  for  drinking  alone,  I'll  just  take 
a  little  bracer."  Sipes'  solitary  eye  again  closed 
expressively,  as  the  "Jedge"  removed  the  stopper, 
grasped  the  big  bottle  firmly  around  the  neck,  and 
tilted  it  among  his  whiskers  with  a  motion  that 
no  tyro  could  ever  hope  to  imitate. 

[241] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  answering  gurgle  indicated  that  the  "bra- 
cer" was  "going  home,"  and  that,  to  say  the  least, 
it  was  not  homeopathic.  After  the  restoration  of 
"Black  Betty"  to  her  hiding-place,  the  "Jedge"  re- 
sumed the  conversation,  without  referring  to  the 
cold  water  which  we  had  suggested.  Possibly  the 
mention  of  it  had  affected  him  unpleasantly. 

He  explained  the  map  in  detail,  and  told  of 
several  changes  that  would  have  to  be  made  in  a 
new  one.  This  led  to  long  accounts,  punctuated 
with  more  winks  by  Sipes,  of  petty  litigation,  in 
which  he  had  taken  a  prominent  part,  as  a  result 
of  which  a  lot  of  land  had  been  condemned  and 
some  new  roads  established.  Had  it  not  been  for 
him,  the  highways  would  have  been  "entirely  in- 
adequate, and  in  very  poor  condition." 

In  summing  up  his  public  services  he  said  that 
he  had  lived  in  that  part  of  the  state  for  about 
thirty  years.  His  advice  was  now  being  generally 
followed,  and  the  country  was  beginning  to  pick 
up.  He  had  several  small  farms  for  sale  which 
he  would  like  to  show  me,  if  I  thought  of  locating 
around  there;  in  fact,  there  was  nothing  anywhere 
in  that  part  of  the  country  that  was  not  for  sale. 

[242] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

I  told  him  that  my  interest  in  the  subject  was 
entirely  of  an  artistic  character. 

"Well,  if  that's  the  case,  I  can  show  you  a  lot 
of  fine  scenes,  and  if  you'll  come  over  some  day 
and  get  into  a  buggy  with  me,  I'll  drive  you  over 
to  the  county  seat  when  I  go  to  court." 

He  seemed  much  flattered  when  I  asked  him  to 
allow  me  to  make  a  sketch  of  him.  After  it  was 
finished,  he  examined  it  critically,  to  the  intense 
amusement  of  Sipes.  He  thought  the  nose  was  a 
little  too  big,  and  the  hair  was  "too  much  mussed 
up."  He  also  thought  that  the  drawing  made  him 
look  a  little  older  than  he  was,  and  that  the  eye 
was  not  quite  natural,  "but  of  course  I  can't  see 
the  side  of  my  face,  and  it  may  be  all  right. 

"As  you  are  interested  in  art,  you'll  enjoy  look- 
ing at  my  pictures." 

He  then  showed  me  the  array  on  the  walls,  of 
which  he  was  very  proud.  The  crayon  portrait  of 
his  first  wife,  with  the  cheeks  tinted  pink  and  the 
ear-rings  gilded,  he  thought  "was  a  fine  piece  of 
work."  A  man  had  come  along,  about  ten  years 
ago,  and  had  made  three  "genuine  crayon  por- 
traits" for  ten  dollars.    The  "Jedge"  supposed  that 

[243] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"now  days  they  would  be  worth  a  great  deal  more 
than  that."  The  other  two  "genuine  crayon  por- 
traits" represented  his  father  and  mother,  an  anti- 
quated couple  in  the  Sunday  dress  of  pioneer  days, 
who  looked  severely  out  of  their  heavy  frames. 
The  man  had  taken  the  old  daguerreotypes  away 
to  be  copied,  and  when  the  completed  goods  were 
delivered,  he  claimed  that  "the  frames  alone  were 
worth  as  much  as  the  pictures."  In  this  he  was 
quite  right. 

The  "Jedge"  wanted  to  show  me  an  album  con- 
taining pictures  of  the  rest  of  his  relatives,  but 
fortunately  he  was  unable  to  find  it.  In  searching 
for  it,  however,  he  ran  across  a  box  containing  a 
collection  of  Indian  arrow  heads,  flint  implements, 
and  spears,  which  were  of  absorbing  interest.  He 
had  found  some  of  them  himself,  and  numerous 
friends,  knowing  of  his  hobby,  had  furnished  him 
with  many  of  these  valuable  relics  of  the  red  man, 
whose  white  brothers  came  with  guns  and  strong 
waters  and  appropriated  his  heritage. 

He  soon  began  to  show  signs  of  more  pains  in 
his  back.  With  an  apologetic  reference  to  them, 
and  with  more  sly  winks  from  Sipes,  "Black  Betty" 

[244] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

was  again  produced,  and  her  fiery  fluid  again 
solaced  the  arid  esophagus  of  the  "Jedge." 

The  contents  of  the  bottle  were  evidently  getting 
dangerously  low.  He  excused  himself  for  a  min- 
ute, and  took  it  into  the  next  room,  where  he  re- 
filled it  from  the  big  demijohn  that  stood  in  the 
corner.  Sipes  indulged  in  many  amusing  grimaces 
as  the  sounds  from  the  other  room  indicated  that 
"Black  Betty's"  condition  had  again  become  nor- 
mal. 

After  we  had  talked  a  little  while  longer,  Sipes 
related  to  the  "Jedge"  the  story  of  the  tangled  set 
lines,  over  which  he  and  "Happy  Cal"  had  got  into 
trouble  years  ago,  and  wanted  to  know  "what  the 
law  was." 

After  listening  carefully  to  all  of  the  facts,  the 
"Jedge"  cleared  his  throat  slightly  and  delivered 
his  opinion. 

This  preliminary  slight  clearing  of  the  throat 
implies  deliberation,  and  often  adds  impressive- 
ness  to  a  forthcoming  utterance.  Sipes  remarked 
later,  that  "nobody  never  lived  that  was  as  wise 
as  the  Jedge  looked  when  'e  hemmed  a  little  an' 
got  on  'is  legal  frown." 

[245] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

"It  seems  from  the  facts  before  us,  that  the  mass 
of  property  under  consideration  was  discovered 
on  the  shore,  about  half-way  between  the  homes 
of  the  two  claimants,  neither  of  whom,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  possessed  original  title  to  it.  The  position 
of  the  mass  when  found  brings  up  several  difficult 
questions  of  law,  involving  facts  which  are  malum 
in  se.  A  portion  of  it  was  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  a  portion  of  it  was  submerged,  and  still 
another  portion  was  on  dry  land.  According  to 
maritime  law,  that  portion  on  the  surface  was 
flotsam,  and  that  portion  which  was  submerged 
was  jetsam.  The  laws  affecting  flotsam  and  jet- 
sam would  prevail  as  to  these  two  portions,  but 
as  to  the  portion  which  rested  on  dry  land,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  lex  loci  would  apply." 

Whereupon,  the  bewildered  Sipes  asked,  "Who 
done  this?" 

Disregarding  the  interruption,  the  "Jedge" 
again  slightly  cleared  his  throat  and  continued: 

"A  priori,  I  am  of  opinion  that  prima  facie 
evidence  of  ownership  rests  with  possession,  and 
that  the  onus  probandi  must  necessarily  be  ex  ad- 
verso."    The  "Jedge"  then  stated  that  the  opinion 

[246] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

would  cost  half  a  dollar.  Sipes  was  speechless, 
but  paid  the  fee. 

The  "Jedge"  had  charged  "Happy  Cal"  a  dol- 
lar one  night,  years  ago,  for  an  opinion  in  the  same 
case.  He  had  advised  Cal  "not  to  disturb  the 
status  quo."  The  dazed  client  paid  the  money 
and  disappeared  into  the  darkness.  He  probably 
stopped  at  Sipes's  place,  where  the  untangled  lines 
were  stretched  out  to  dry,  and  cut  them  up,  on 
his  way  home,  thus  disposing  of  the  ''status  quo" 
entirely. 

It  was  to  the  credit  of  the  "Jedge"  that  he  never 
took  any  more  than  his  clients  had,  and  they  could 
always  come  back  when  they  had  more. 

We  finally  thanked  the  "Jedge"  for  his  courtesy, 
and  bade  him  good-bye. 

On  the  way  back  I  reimbursed  Sipes  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  half-dollar  which  he  had  paid  for  the 
opinion,  as  it  had  really  been  worth  more  to  me 
than  it  was  to  him.  After  we  had  left  the  house, 
the  old  man's  comments  on  the  visit  were  earnest 
and  caustic. 

"Wot  d'ye  think  o'  the  gall  o'  that  old  cuss 
chargin'  me  half  a  dollar  fer  all  that  noise  'e  made 

[247] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

about  them  lines?  I  don't  know  that  feller  Losey 
'e  spoke  of.  He  was  never  'round  'ere  at  all,  an' 
'e  never  'ad  nothin'  to  do  with  them  lines,  an' 
that  melon  in  the  sea,  that  'e  told  about,  was  all 
bunk.  There  was  nothin'  like  that  near  that  bunch 
o'  stuff.  I  don't  know  what  ever  become  o'  Cal. 
He  may  be  now  in  spotless  robes,  fer  all  I  know, 
but  I  know  'e  cut  up  them  lines  just  the  same. 
There  was  about  two  miles  of  'em,  when  they  was 
fixed  up  an'  stretched  out,  an'  they  was  worth  some 
money,  an'  as  long  as  the  feller  that  'ad  'em  out 
in  the  lake  didn't  come  along  to  claim  'em,  they 
was  mine.  Cal  never  'ad  no  bus'ness  with  'em, 
an'  I  don't  need  to  mosey  over  an'  pay  that  old 
tank  fifty  cents  to  find  it  out,  neither.  Cash  us 
Blossom  is  a  good  name  fer  him,  all  right.  He's 
everythin'  I  said  'e  was  on  the  way  over,  an'  more, 
too.  He's  got  some  fresh  money  now,  an'  I'll  bet 
the  demijohn'll  be  trundled  over  to  the  county  seat 
the  first  thing  in  the  mornin'.  He  can  buy  a  lot  o' 
the  kind  o'  whisky  'e  drinks  fer  half  a  dollar. 

"He  lays  'is  demijohn  on  the  side,  underneath, 
when  'e  starts  out,  but  when  'e  drives  home  it's 
always  standin'  up  in  the  back  o'  the  buggy,  so 

[248] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

nothin'  '11  spill,  an'  that's  more'n  the  Jedge  could 
do.  When  I  see  'im  drivin'  on  the  road,  I  can 
always  tell,  by  where  the  demijohn  is,  whether  'e's 
got  a  cargo  or  travelin'  light.  That  heap  big  Injun 
dignity  that  'e's  always  puttin'  on  when  'e  makes 
them  spiels  o'  his,  gives  me  tired  feelin's.  You 
can't  mix  up  dignity  with  whisky  without  spoilin' 
both  of  'em.  If  'e  ever  comes  over  to  my  place, 
you  can  turn  me  into  snakes  if  I  don't  charge  'im 
a  half  a  dollar  fer  the  first  question  'e  asks.  I'll 
bet  'e  won't  come  though,  fer  I'm  too  near  the 
water.  I  wish  I  could  sic  old  Doc  Looney  on  'im 
some  time.  He  wouldn't  stay  afloat  long  after 
the  Doc  got  to  'im." 

I  asked  Sipes  if  the  forbidding-looking  female 
who  came  to  the  door  was  the  Judge's  wife. 

"Not  on  yer  life,"  he  replied.  "If  'e  had  a 
wife,  she'd  kill  'im.  That  ol'  cactus  is  'is  house- 
keeper. She's  a  distant  relative  o'  some  kind,  an' 
she's  just  waitin'  fer  Black  Betty  to  finish  'im  up 
so's  she'll  git  the  house." 

We  arrived  at  Sipes's  place  about  dusk.  I  had 
left  my  boat  on  the  beach,  and,  as  the  old  man 
helped  me  push  it  into  the  water,  he  indulged  in 

[249] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

final  anathemas  against  the  "Jedge."  He  shook 
his  fist  in  his  direction  and  said  that  "when  we  go 
over  there  ag'in  we'd  better  leave  our  money  in 
the  shanty." 

I  happened  to  stop  at  the  store  in  the  sleepy  vil- 
lage one  hot  day  during  the  following  summer. 
The  "Jedge"  was  just  getting  into  his  buggy,  but 
stopped  and  greeted  me  cordially.  I  intended 
leaving  for  home  that  evening,  and  he  kindly  of- 
fered to  take  me  to  the  railroad  station,  about  five 
miles  away.  I  gladly  accepted  his  offer,  although 
he  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a  very  good  condition 
to  drive  a  horse. 

On  the  way  across  the  country  he  recited  his 
public  services,  discussed  the  details  of  his  "im- 
portant cases,"  and  unfolded  his  dreams  of  the 
future  of  the  county. 

We  arrived  at  the  station  just  in  time  to  enable 
me  to  jump  quickly  out  of  the  buggy  and  catch 
the  train  that  was  pulling  out.  I  paused  on  the 
rear  platform  to  call  out  a  good-bye  to  the  "Jedge," 
but  he  had  tried  to  make  too  short  a  turn  on  the 
narrow  road,  and  the  buggy  was  lying  on  its  side, 
much  twisted  up.    The  horse  had  stopped  and  was 

[250] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

looking  inquiringly  back  from  between  the  broken 
thills.  The  "Jedge,1'  who  was  partially  under  the 
wreck,  but  evidently  unhurt,  waved  a  cheerful 
farewell  at  me  as  the  train  passed  the  water  tank, 
and  in  the  distance  I  could  see  that  he  was  getting 
safely  out  of  the  scrape. 

The  station  agent  and  a  few  villagers,  who  had 
come  to  the  depot  to  see  that  the  train  arrived 
and  departed  properly,  were  going  to  his  assist- 
ance. 

From  about  two  miles  away  I  saw  the  black 
buggy  top  slowly  resume  its  normal  position  and 
begin  to  move  on  the  road.  The  "Jedge'1  was 
probably  by  this  time  much  in  need  of  "refresh- 
ment," and,  as  he  was  now  on  the  way  to  the 
county  seat,  relief  was  not  very  far  off.  Undoubt- 
edly his  friend  Fogarty  would  fully  and  deeply 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  troubles  as  long  as  his 
cash  lasted. 

He  was  one  of  the  pathetic  failures  whom  we 
meet  daily  in  the  walks  of  life.  Naturally  gifted, 
and  fairly  well  educated,  he  had  started  bravely 
out  on  his  road  of  destiny,  with  noble  ambitions 
and  alluring  hopes.    In  the  early  part  of  the  jour- 

[251] 


JUDGE    CASSIUS    BLOSSOM 

ney  he  had  lifted  a  fatal  chalice  to  his  lips,  and 
the  way  became  dark.  He  drifted  from  the  high- 
way that  might  have  led  to  fame  and  fortune  to 
the  still  by-path  in  which  we  found  him.  Because 
he  was  not  strong,  he  fell — as  countless  others  have 
fallen  before  him. 

The  shadow  of  "Black  Betty"  has  fallen  over  a 
chair  in  the  sleepy  village  that  is  now  empty,  and 
it  may  be  that  the  poor  old  "Jedge"  is  arguing  his 
own  plea  for  mercy  before  a  greater  Court.  Let 
us  hope  that  his  final  appeal  may  bring  forgive- 
ness and  peace. 

The  stone,  simple  and  suggestive,  which  was 
erected  to  his  memory,  was  designed  and  paid  for 
by  his  friends.  Even  Sipes  relented  and  requested 
Catfish  John  to  put  fifty  cents  in  "cash-money" 
into  the  contribution  box  at  the  store  for  him. 


} 


[252] 


"AMONG  BIG  WET  STRETCHES  OF 
HIGH  GRASS  AND  BULRUSHES" 


CHAPTER    XIII 
THE   WINDING    RIVER 

TO  enjoy  a  river  we  must  adjust  ourselves 
to  its  moods,  for  a  river  has  many  moods. 
It  moves  swiftly  and  light-heartedly  over 
the  shallows,  as  we  do,  and  it  has  its  solemn,  quiet 
moments  in  the  shadows  of  the  steep  banks,  where 
the  current  is  deep  and  still.  It  begins,  like  our 
lives,  somewhere  far  away,  and  twists  and  turns, 
flows  in  long  swerves,  meets  many  rocks,  ripples 
over  pebbly  places,  smiles  among  many  riffles, 
frowns  under  stormy  skies,  meditates  in  quiet 
nooks,  and  then  goes  on. 

As  it  becomes  older  it  broadens  and  becomes 
stronger.  It  begins  to  make  a  larger  path  of  its 
own  in  the  world,  which  it  follows  with  varying 
fortunes,  until  its  waters  have  gone  beyond  it. 

[255] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

The  Winding  River  begins  miles  away  and 
steals  down  through  the  back  country.  It  curves 
and  runs  through  devious  channels  and  makes  wide 
detours,  before  it  finally  flows  out  through  the  sand 
hills  into  the  great  lake. 

Along  its  tranquil  course  there  are  many  things 
to  be  studied  and  learned,  and  many  new  thoughts 
and  sensations  to  grow  out  of  them.  We  must  go 
down  the  river,  and  not  against  its  current,  to  know 
its  strange  spirit,  and  to  love  it.  There  is  always 
a  feeling  of  closer  companionship  when  we  are 
traveling  in  the  same  direction. 

It  is  best  to  go  alone,  in  a  small  boat,  carrying 
a  few  feet  of  rope  attached  to  a  heavy  stone,  so 
that  the  boat  may  be  anchored  in  any  desirable 
spot.  You  should  sit  facing  the  bow,  and  guide 
the  boat  with  a  paddle,  or  a  pair  of  oars  in  front 
of  you,  and  let  the  current  carry  you  along. 

The  journey  commences  several  miles  up  in  the 
woods,  where  the  banks  are  only  a  few  feet  apart. 
The  boat  is  piloted  cautiously  through  the  deep 
forest,  among  the  ancient  logs  that  clog  the  cur- 
rent. The  patriarchs  have  fallen  in  bygone  years, 
and  are  slowly  moldering  away  into  the  limpid 

[256] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

waters  that  once  reflected  them  in  their  stately 
Indian  summer  robes  of  red  and  gold. 

Masses  of  water-soaked  brush  must  be  encoun- 
tered, and  sunken  snags  avoided.  Fringes  of  small 
turtles,  on  decayed  and  broken  branches,  protrud- 
ing from  the  water,  and  on  the  recumbent  trunks, 
splash  noisily  into  the  depths  below — a  wood  duck 
glides  away  downstream— a  muskrat,  that  has  been 
investigating  a  deep  pool  near  the  bank,  beats  a 
hasty  retreat,  and  a  few  scolding  chipmunks  flip 
their  tails  saucily,  and  whisk  out  of  sight.  A  gray 
squirrel  barks  defiantly  from  the  branch  of  an 
over-hanging  tree,  and  an  excited  kingfisher  circles 
around,  loudly  protesting  against  the  invasion  of 
his  hunting  grounds. 

All  of  the  wild  things  resent  intrusion  into  their 
solitudes,  and  disappear,  when  there  is  any  move- 
ment. If  we  would  know  them  and  learn  their 
ways,  we  must  sit  silently  and  wait  for  them  to 
come  around  us.  We  may  go  into  the  woods  and 
sit  upon  a  log  or  stump,  without  seeing  the  slightest 
sign  of  life,  and  apparently  none  exists  in  the 
vicinity,  but  many  pairs  of  sharp  eyes  have  ob- 
served our  coming  long  before  we  could  see  them. 

[  257  ] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

After  a  period  of  silence  the  small  life  will  again 
become  active,  and  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon, 
if  we  are  cautious  as  well  as  observant,  we  will 
find  that  we  have  seen  and  heard  a  great  deal  that 
is  of  absorbing  interest. 

Larger  openings  begin  to  appear  among  the 
trees,  the  sunlit  spaces  become  broader,  and 
patches  of  distant  sky  come  into  the  picture. 
There  are  fewer  obstructions  in  the  course,  and 
the  little  boat  floats  out  into  comparatively  open 
country.  Tall  graceful  elms,  with  the  delicate 
lacery  of  their  green-clad  branches  etched  against 
the  clouds,  a  few  groups  of  silvery  poplars,  some 
straggling  sycamores,  and  bunches  of  gnarled 
stubby  willows  line  the  margins  of  the  stream,  and 
detached  masses  of  them  appear  out  on  the  boggy 
land. 

The  Winding  River  flows  through  a  happy 
valley.  From  a  bank  among  the  trees  a  silver 
glint  is  seen  upon  water,  near  a  clump  of  willows, 
not  so  very  far  away,  but  the  sinuous  stream  will 
loiter  for  hours  before  it  comes  to  them. 

A  few  cattle,  several  horses,  and  a  solitary  crow 
give  a  life  note  to  the  landscape.     A  faint  wreath 

[258] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

of  smoke  is  visible  above  some  trees  on  the  right, 
there  are  echoes  from  a  hidden  barnyard,  and  a 
fussy  bunch  of  tame  ducks  are  splashing  around 
the  end  of  a  half-sunken  flat-bottomed  boat  at- 
tached to  a  stake. 

A  freckled  faced  boy,  of  about  ten,  with  faded 
blue  overalls,  frayed  below  the  knees,  and  sus- 
tained by  one  suspender,  is  watching  a  crooked 
fishpole  and  a  silent  cork,  near  the  roots  of  a  big 
sycamore  that  shades  a  pool. 

He  wears  a  rudimentary  shirt,  and  his  red  hair 
projects,  like  little  streaks  of  flame,  through  his 
torn  hat.  His  bare  feet  and  legs  are  very  dirty. 
He  looks  out  from  under  the  uncertain  rim  of  the 
hat  with  a  comical  expression  when  asked  what 
luck  he  is  having,  and  holds  up  a  willow  switch, 
on  which  are  suspended  a  couple  of  diminutive 
bullheads,  and  a  small  but  richly  colored  sunfish. 
The  spoil  is  not  abundant,  yet  the  freckled  boy 
is  happy. 

After  the  boat  has  passed  on  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  his  distant  yell  of  triumph  is  heard. 
"I've  got  another  one!"  Paeons  of  victory  from 
conquered  walls  could  tell  no  more. 

[259] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Farther  on,  the  banks  become  a  little  higher,  the 
stream  is  wider  and  faster.  In  the  distance  a  dingy 
old  water-mill  creeps  into  the  landscape.  This 
means  that  a  dam  will  soon  be  encountered.  The 
boat  will  have  to  be  pulled  out  and  put  back  into 
the  river  below  it.  For  this  it  will  be  necessary 
to  arouse  the  cooperative  interest  of  the  miller  in 
some  way,  for  the  boat  is  not  built  of  feathers. 

A  crude  mill-race  has  been  dug  parallel  to  the 
river's  course,  and  the  clumsy  old-fashioned  wheel 
is  slowly  and  noisily  churning  away  under  the 
side  of  the  mill.  The  structure  was  once  painted 
a  dull  red,  but  time  has  blended  it  into  a  warm 
neutral  gray.  Some  comparatively  recent  repairs 
on  the  sides  and  roof  give  it  a  mottled  appearance, 
and  add  picturesque  quality.  A  few  small  houses 
are  scattered  along  the  road  leading  to  the  mill, 
and  the  general  store  is  visible  among  the  trees 
farther  back,  for  the  little  boat  has  now  come  to 
the  sleepy  village  in  the  back  country.  There  are 
no  railroad  trains  or  trolley-cars  to  desecrate  its 
repose,  for  these  are  far  away.  Several  slowly 
moving  figures  appear  on  the  road.  There  is  an 
event  of  some  kind  down  near  the  mill,  and  the 

[260] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

well-worn  chairs  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the 
store  have  been  deserted.  Whatever  is  going  on 
must  be  carefully  inspected  and  considered  at 
once. 

There  is  an  interesting  foregound  between  the 
boat  and  the  mill,  the  reflections  to  be  seen  from 
the  opposite  bank  seem  tempting,  and  an  absorb- 
ing half  hour  is  spent  under  the  tree,  with  the 
sketch  book  and  soft  pencil. 

The  curious  group  on  the  other  side  is  evidently 
indulging  in  all  sorts  of  theories  and  speculations 
as  to  "wot  that  feller  over  there  is  tryin'  to  do." 
It  is  a  foregone  conclusion  that  curiosity  will 
eventually  triumph,  and  soon  the  strain  becomes 
too  intense  for  further  endurance.  The  old  miller, 
with  the  dust  of  his  trade  copiously  sifted  into  his 
clothes  and  whiskers,  gets  into  the  flat-bottomed 
boat  near  the  dam  and  slowly  poles  it  across.  All 
of  the  details  of  the  voyage  are  attentively  scru- 
tinized from  the  other  side. 

After  a  friendly  "good  morning,"  a  few  remarks 
about  the  stage  of  the  water,  and  the  weather 
prospects,  he  stands  around  for  a  while,  and  then 
looks  over  at  the  sketch.     He  produces  a  pair  of 

[261] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

brass-rimmed  spectacles,  which  enables  him  to 
study  it  more  carefully,  and  he  is  much  pleased. 
He  "haint  never  noticed  the  scene  much  from  this 
side,  but  it  looks  pretty.  After  this  is  finished  off 
you'd  better  come  'round  on  the  other  side,  so's 
to  show  the  platform  an'  the  sign.  A  feller  made 
a  photograph  of  my  mill  once,  an'  'e  promised 
to  send  me  one,  but  'e  didn't  never  do  it."  The 
long  remembered  incident,  and  the  broken  faith, 
seemed  to  disturb  him,  and  he  appeared  to  be  con- 
cerned as  to  the  destiny  of  the  sketch.  He  wanted 
it  "to  put  up  in  the  mill." 

His  befloured  whiskers  and  general  appearance 
suggest  more  sketches,  and  he  is  induced  to  pose 
for  a  few  minutes.  One  of  the  drawings  is  pre- 
sented to  him,  and  the  curiosity  on  the  other  bank 
is  now  getting  to  the  breaking  point.  Only  the 
absence  of  transportation  facilities  prevents  the 
crossing  of  the  anxious  spectators.  There  have 
been  several  additions  to  the  gaping  group  on  the 
other  side.  A  portly  female,  in  a  gingham  dress, 
stands  bareheaded  in  the  road,  contemplating  the 
scene  from  afar,  and  a  couple  of  barking  dogs 
have  come  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 

[262] 


THE   WINDING    RIVER 

The  deliberate  and  dignified  approach  of  the 
keeper  of  the  general  store  lends  a  new  note  of 
interest. 

After  further  pleasant  conversation,  the  dusty 
miller  helps  to  drag  the  boat  around  the  dam.  He 
waves  a  cheerful  farewell,  recrosses  the  stream, 
and  immediately  becomes  the  center  of  concen- 
trated interest.  The  fat  woman  in  the  road 
waddles  down  to  the  mill,  and  a  number  of  bare- 
headed children  come  running  down  the  slope, 
who  have  peeked  at  the  proceedings  from  secluded 
points  of  vantage. 

As  the  boat  floats  on,  the  figures  become  in- 
distinct, the  houses  fade  into  the  soft  distance,  the 
mill,  like  those  of  the  gods,  grinds  slowly  on,  and, 
with  the  next  bend  in  the  river,  the  sleepy  village 
is  gone. 

The  story  of  the  eventful  day  percolates  from 
the  store  off  into  the  back  country,  and  weeks  later 
we  hear  it  from  a  rheumatic  old  dweller  in  the 
marshy  land,  near  the  beginning  of  the  sand  hills, 
He  unfortunately  "wasn't  to  town"  at  the  time. 

"A  feller  come  'long  in  a  boat  an'  stopped  at 
the  mill.     He  was  'round  thar  fer  over  an  hour 

[263] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

an'  drawed  some  pitchers  of  it.  He  made  one  o' 
the  old  man  with  'is  pipe  showin'.  He  was  some 
city  feller,  an'  had  to  git  the  old  man  to  help  'im 
with   'is  boat  'round   the  dam.      The  old  man's 


"WITH  THE  NEXT  BEND  IN  THE  RIVER 
THE  SLEEPY  VILLAGE  IS  GONE" 


got  a  pitcher  'e  made  of  'im  stickin'  up  in  the  mill 
now.  A  feller  like  him  oughter  larn  some  trade, 
instid  o'  foolin'  away  'is  time  makin'  pitchers.  No- 
body 'ud  ever  buy  one  o'  them  dam'  things  in  a 
thousand  years.    I'll  bet  'e  was  spyin'  fer  the  rail- 

[264] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

road,  an'  they'll  prob'ly  be  'long  here  makin1  a 
survey  before  long." 

A  little  farther  down  is  a  loose-jointed  bridge 
with  some  patent  medicine  signs  on  it.  Another 
sign  tells  the  users  not  to  drive  over  the  structure 
"faster  than  a  walk."  Any  kind  of  a  speed  limit 
in  this  slumbrous  land  seems  preposterous,  but 
the  cautionary  board  is  there,  peppered  over  with 
little  holes,  made  by  repeated  charges  of  small 
shot,  and  partially  defaced  with  sundry  initials  cut 
into  it  with  jack-knives.  Some  crude  and  un- 
known humorist  has  changed  some  of  the  letters 
and  syllables  in  the  patent  medicine  signs,  and 
made  them  even  more  eloquent. 

Another  lone  fisherman  is  on  the  bridge,  watch- 
ing a  cork  that  bobs  idly  on  the  dimpled  tide 
below.  Another  single  suspender  supports  some 
deteriorated  overalls.  Possibly  the  freckled  boy 
up  the  river  was  wearing  the  rest  of  the  suspenders. 
He  is  an  old  man,  with  heavy  gray  eyebrows,  and 
long  white  whiskers  that  sway  gently  in  the  soft 
wind.  His  face  has  an  air  of  patient  resignation. 
He  wears  a  faded  colored  shirt  and  a  weather- 
beaten  straw  hat.     His  feet,  encased  in  cowhide 

[265] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

boots,  hang  down  over  the  edge  of  the  rickety 
structure,  and  he  sadly  shakes  his  head  when  asked 
if  he  has  caught  any  fish.  His  lure  has  been  in- 
effectual and  he  is  about  ready  to  go  home.  There 
is  still  a  faint  lingering  hope  that  the  cork  may 
be  suddenly  submerged,  and  the  appearance  of  a 
new  object  of  interest  has  decided  him  to  remain 
a  little  while  longer. 

He  explains  that  "the  wind  ain't  right  fer  fish- 
in'.  IVe  seen  fish  caught  off'en  this  bridge  so  fast 
you  couldn't  bait  the  hooks,  but  the  wind  has  to 
be  south.  Besides  the  water's  all  roily  to-day  an' 
the  fish  can't  see  nothin'.  I  bin  drownin'  worms 
'ere  most  all  day,  an'  I  ain't  had  a  bite,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  quit." 

Just  after  the  boat  had  passed  under  the  bridge, 
a  dead  minnow  floated  along  on  the  current.  A 
large  pickerel  broke  water  and  seized  it.  His 
sweeping  tail  made  a  loud  swish,  and  the  water 
boiled  with  commotion  as  he  turned  and  dove  with 
his  prize. 

Instantly  the  dejected  figure  on  the  bridge  be- 
came thrilled  with  a  new  life,  and  a  torrent  of 
profanity  filled  the  air. 

[266] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

"Now  wot  d'ye  think  o'  that!  The  gosh  dangled 
idjut's  bin  'round  'ere  all  the  time,  an'  me  settin' 
'ere  with  worms  fer  'im.  They's  a  lot  o'  fish  in 
this  'ere  river  that  I'll  teach  sumpen  to  before 
I'm  through  with  'em.  I'm  a  pretty  old  man,  but 
you  bet  I'm  goin'  to  play  the  game  while  I'm  'ere. 
I  wonder  where  'e  went  with  that  dam'  minnie!" 

The  boat  goes  tranquilly  on,  and  in  the  dim  dis- 
tance the  old  man  is  actively  moving  around  on 
the  bridge,  flourishing  his  cane  pole  and  casting 
the  tempting  bait  all  over  the  surface  of  the  water, 
evidently  hoping  that  the  "gosh  dangled  idjut" 
will  rise  again. 

The  river  now  comes  to  the  beginning  of  the 
vast  marsh,  through  which  its  well-defined  channel 
follows  a  tortuous  route  among  big  wet  stretches 
of  high  grasses  and  bulrushes,  winds  with  innu- 
merable turns,  makes  long  sweeps  and  loops,  and 
comes  back,  almost  doubling  itself  in  its  serpentine 
course.  The  current  slackens  and  the  water  be- 
comes deeper. 

The  cries  of  the  marsh  birds  are  heard,  and 
muskrats  are  swimming  at  the  apexes  of  the  long 
V-shaped  wakes  out  on  the  open  water.    On  small 

[267] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

boggy  spots  are  piles  of  empty  freshwater  clam 
shells  where  these  interesting  little  animals  have 
feasted.  As  the  crows  seem  to  dominate  the  sand 
hills,  the  muskrats  contribute  much  picturesque 
quality  to  the  marsh.     Their  little  houses  add  in- 


'THE  RIVER  NOW  COMES  TO  THE  BEGINNING 
OF  THE  VAST  MARSH" 


terest  to  the  wet  places,  and  traces  of  them  appear 
all  over  the  low  land. 

A  wild  duck  hurries  her  downy  young  into  the 
thick  grasses — a  few  turtles  tumble  hastily  from 
the  bogs  into  the  water — a  large  blue  heron  rises 
slowly  out  of  an  unseen  retreat,  and  trails  his  long 

[268] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

legs  after  him  in  rhythmic  flight  down  the  marsh 
— mysterious  wings  are  heard  among  the  rushes — 
immense  flocks  of  blackbirds  fill  the  air — there  is 
a  splash  out  among  the  lily  pads,  where  a  hungry 
fish  has  captured  his  unsuspecting  prey,  and  the 
deep  sonorous  bass  of  a  philosophic  bullfrog  re- 
sounds from  concealed  recesses. 

Another  bend  in  the  channel  reveals  a  flock  of 
wild  ducks  feeding  quietly  along  the  edges  of  the 
weeds.  The  intrusion  is  quickly  detected  and  they 
swiftly  take  wing.  A  sinister  head,  with  beady 
eyes,  appears  on  the  surface  behind  the  boat,  and 
is  instantly  withdrawn.  A  big  snapping-turtle  has 
come  up  to  investigate  the  cause  of  the  dark 
shadow  which  has  passed  along  the  bottom. 

Some  open  wet  ground  comes  into  view  around 
the  next  curve,  and  some  lazy  cattle  look  up  in- 
quiringly. After  their  curiosity  is  satisfied,  they 
turn  their  heads  away  and  resume  their  reflections. 

The  Winding  River  has  its  solemn  hours  as  well 
as  those  of  gladness.  Heavy  masses  of  low  gray 
clouds  are  creeping  into  the  sky,  the  shadows  are 
disappearing  and  a  moody  monotone  has  come 
over  the  landscape.     Deep  mutterings  of  thunder, 

[269] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

and  a  few  vivid  flashes,  herald  the  approach  of 
a  storm. 

Some  thick  willows,  which  can  be  reached 
through  openings  among  the  lily  pads,  a  short 
distance  from  the  main  channel,  offer  a  convenient 
shelter,  and  from  it  the  coming  drama  can  be 
contemplated. 

The  big  drops  are  soon  heard  among  the  leaves, 
the  distant  trees  loom  in  ghostly  stillness  through 
veils  of  moving  mist,  the  delicate  color  tones  gently 
change  into  a  lower  scale,  and  the  voices  of  the 
falling  waters  come.  The  reeds  and  rushes  bend 
humbly,  and  there  are  subdued  cries  from  the 
feathered  life  that  is  hurrying  to  shelter  among 
them.  The  rain  patters  and  murmurs  out  among 
the  thick  grasses  and  on  the  open  river. 

There  are  noble  beauties  and  sublimities  in  the 
storm,  which  those  who  only  love  the  sunshine 
can  never  know.  Truly  "Our  Lady  of  the  Rain" 
weaves  a  marvelous  spell,  and  her  song  is  of  sur- 
passing beauty,  as  she  trails  her  robes  in  majesty 
over  the  river  and  through  the  marshy  wastes. 
Her  pictures  blend  with  her  measures,  for  a  song 
may  have  other  mediums  than  sound,  and  there 

[270] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

are  many  symphonies  that  are  silent.  The  prelude 
in  the  lowering  clouds,  and  the  melody  of  the 
loosened  waters,  bring  to  us  a  sense  of  unity  and 
closer  communion  with  the  powers  in  the  skies 
above  us. 

The  sheets  of  flying  waters  have  gone  on  up 
the  marsh,  a  long  rift  has  appeared  in  the  clouds 
beyond  the  hills,  a  bright  gleam  has  come 
through  it,  and  the  end  of  a  rainbow  touches  a 
clump  of  poplars  far  away.  The  storm  is  over 
and  the  little  boat  is  piloted  out  through  the  lily 
pads,  to  resume  its  journey  on  the  tranquil  stream. 
It  finally  reaches  the  sand  hills.  The  river  nar- 
rows and  runs  more  rapidly  as  it  leaves  the  swamp. 
Another  sleepy  little  town,  with  two  or  three 
bridges,  appears  ahead.  There  are  more  still 
figures  on  the  bank,  watching  corks  on  lines  at- 
tached to  long  cane  poles,  which  are  stuck  into 
the  earth  and  supported  by  forked  sticks.  The 
labor  of  holding  them  has  proved  too  great  and 
natural  forces  have  been  utilized  to  avoid  unneces- 
sary exertion.  The  anglers  appear  much  depressed 
and  are  soaking  wet.  A  nearby  bridge  would  have 
provided  a  refuge  from  the  recent  rain,  but  pos- 

[271  ] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

sibly  their  intellectual  limitations  did  not  permit 
of  advantage  being  taken  of  it. 

A  friendly  inquiry  as  to  their  success  evokes 
sleepy  responses,  and  looks  of  languid  curiosity. 
"The  fishin'  ain't  no  good.  I  got  one  yisterd'y, 
but  I  guess  the  water's  too  high  fer  'em  to  bite." 

We  have  now  come  to  the  end  of  the  Winding 
River.  Its  waters  glide  peacefully  out  and  blend 
into  the  blue  immensity  of  the  great  lake.  Like 
a  human  life  that  has  run  its  course  through  the 
vicissitudes  and  varied  paths  of  the  years,  they 
have  ceased  to  flow,  and  have  been  gathered  into 
unknown  depths  beyond. 

There  are  many  winding  rivers,  but  this  one 
has  numberless  joyful  and  poetic  associations.  On 
its  peaceful  waters  many  sketch-books  have  been 
filled,  and  happy  hours  dreamed  away.  From  the 
little  boat  wonderful  vistas  have  unfolded,  and 
marvelous  skies  have  been  contemplated. 

The  heavens  at  twilight,  flushed  with  glorious 
afterglows  in  orange,  green  and  purple — the  clear 
still  firmament  at  mid-day,  lightly  flecked  with 
little  wisps  of  smoky  vapor — the  lazy  white  masses 
against  the  infinite  blue,  and  the  billowing  thun- 

[272] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

derheads  on  the  horizon  on  quiet  afternoons — the 
stormy  array  of  dark  battalions  of  wind-blown 
clouds,  with  their  trailing  sheets  of  rain — and 
many  other  convolutions  of  the  great  panoramas 
in  the  skies,  have  been  humbly  observed  from  the 
little  boat.  The  Winding  River  has  reflected 
them,  and  the  picturesque  sweeps  and  bends,  the 
masses  of  trees  on  the  banks,  with  the  silvery 
stretches  of  slowly  moving  waters,  have  given 
wonderful  foregrounds  to  these  entrancing  pros- 
pects. 

Fancy  has  woven  rare  fabrics,  and  builded 
strange  and  fragile  dreams  among  these  glowing 
and  ever-changing  symphonies  of  light  and  color. 
The  little  boat  has  been  a  kingdom  in  a  world  of 
enchantment.  The  domes  and  vistas  of  a  fairy- 
land have  been  visible  from  it.  The  Psalm  of 
Life  has  seemed  to  float  softly  over  the  bosom 
of  the  river,  and  mingle  with  the  harmonies  of 
infinite  hues  in  the  heavens  beyond.  The  lances 
of  the  departing  sun  have  trailed  over  the  waters, 
and  dark  purple  shadows  have  gently  crept  into 
the  landscape.  Manifold  voices  are  hushed,  and 
the  story  of  another  day  is  told. 

[273] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Nature,  seemingly  jealous  of  other  companion- 
ship, yields  her  spiritual  treasures  only  to  him  who 
comes  alone  into  her  sweet  solitudes.  Before  him 
who  comes  in  reverence,  the  filmy  veils  are  lifted, 
and  the  poetic  soul  is  gently  led  into  mystic  paths 
beyond. 

In  her  great  anthems  of  sublimity  and  power, 
she  fills  our  hearts  with  awe,  and  appals  us  with 
our  insignificance,  but  her  soft  lullabies,  which 
we  hear  in  the  secluded  places,  are  within  the 
capacity  of  our  emotions.  It  is  here  that  she  comes 
to  us  in  her  tenderness  and  beauty,  and  gently 
touches  the  finer  chords  of  our  being. 

One  may  stand  upon  a  mountain-top  and  behold 
the  splendors  of  awful  immensities,  but  the  imag- 
ination is  soon  lost  in  infinity,  and  only  the  atom 
on  the  rock  remains.  The  music  of  the  swaying 
rushes,  the  whispers  among  rippling  waters  and 
softly  moving  leaves,  and  the  voices  of  the  Little 
Things  that  sing  around  us,  all  come  within  the 
compass  of  our  spiritual  realm.  It  is  with  them 
that  we  must  abide  if  we  would  find  contentment 
of  heart  and  soul. 

The  love  of  moving  water  is  one  of  our  primal 

[274] 


THE    WINDING    RIVER 

instincts.  The  tired  mind  seeks  it,  and  weary 
travelers  on  the  deserts  of  life  are  sustained  by 
the  hope  of  living  waters  beyond.  There  are  wind- 
ing rivers  on  which  we  may  float  in  the  world  of 
our  fancy,  and  it  is  on  them  that  we  may  find 
peace  when  sorrows  have  afflicted  us  and  our 
burdens  have  made  scars.  They  may  flow  through 
lordly  forests,  and  stately  mansions  and  magic 
gardens  may  be  reflected  in  their  limpid  tides. 
The  songs  of  these  rivers  are  the  songs  of  the  heart, 
and  in  them  there  is  no  note  of  triumph  over  the 
fallen,  or  despair  of  the  stricken.  They  are  songs 
of  courageous  life  and  melodies  of  the  living 
things,  but  only  those  who  listen  may  hear  them. 
Sometimes,  in  faint  half-heard  tones  from  far 
away,  we  may  imagine  echoes  from  another  world 
than  ours,  and,  as  we  enter  into  the  final  gloom, 
these  harmonies  may  become  divine.  In  the  darker 
recesses  of  our  intellectual  life  we  find  shadows 
that  never  move.  They  seem  to  lie  like  black 
sinister  bars  across  our  mental  paths.  We  know 
not  what  is  beyond  them,  and  we  shrink  from  a 
nameless  terror.  Into  these  shadows  our  loved 
ones    have    gone.     They   have    returned    into    the 

[275] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Elemental  Mystery.  Their  voices  have  not  come 
back  to  us,  but  their  cadences  may  be  in  the  sing- 
ing winds  and  amid  the  patter  of  the  summer  rain. 
Our  Ship  of  Dreams  can  bear  a  wondrous  cargo. 
We  can  sometimes  see  its  mirage  in  the  still  skies 
beyond  the  winding  rivers,  though  its  sails  and 
spars  are  far  below  the  horizon's  rim.  We  know 
that  on  it  are  those  who  beckon,  and  its  wave-kissed 
prow  is  toward  us.  Frail  though  its  timbers  be, 
the  years  may  bring  it,  but  if  it  never  comes,  we 
have  seen  the  picture,  and  new  banners  have  been 
unfurled  before  it. 


[276] 


HE  "WAITED    UNTIL  PE  SAW  HIS  STAR  COME  OVER  THE 
HORIZON  IN  THE  PATH  OF  THE  YOUNG  MOON" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    RED    ARROW 

WHILE  merciless  masters  have  driven 
the  red  man  from  the  dune  country, 
indelible  impressions  of  his  race  re- 
main. His  nomenclature  is  on  the  maps,  and  the 
lakes,  rivers,  and  streams  carry  names  that  were 
precious  to  his  people.  His  mythology  still  en- 
velops the  region  with  a  halo  of  romance  and 
fable. 

The  dust  of  his  forefathers  has  mingled  with 
the  hills,  and  time  has  obliterated  nearly  every 
material  trace  of  him,  except  those  among  the  im- 
perishable stones.  The  debris  of  the  little  quarries 
is  still  visible  on  small  promontories,  and  in  the 
depressions  along  the  ridges,  where  the  pines  have 
held  the  soil  against  the  action  of  the  wind  and 
rain.  Here  we  find  innumerable  chips  and  frag- 
ments of  broken  stones,  left  by  the  workers,  who 
fashioned  the  implements  of  war  and  peace  on 
these  sequestered  spots. 

[279] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Occasionally  an  imperfect  or  unfinished  arrow 
or  spear-head  appears  among  the  refuse,  which 
the  patient  artificer  discarded.  Many  perfect 
specimens  are  found,  but  these  are  seldom  dis- 
covered near  the  sites  of  the  rude  workshops. 
They  are  uncovered  by  the  shifting  sands  in  the 
"blow  outs,"  where  the  winds  eddy  on  the  sides 
of  hills  that  may  have  held  their  secrets  for 
centuries,  and  turned  up  out  of  the  fertile  soil  in 
the  back  country,  by  the  plowshares  of  a  race 
that  carried  the  bitter  cup  of  affliction  to  the 
aborigine. 

The  little  flakes  of  flint  may  be  scattered  over 
a  space  forty  or  fifty  feet  across,  and  many  thou- 
sands of  perfect  points  may  have  gone  forth  from 
it,  as  messages  of  death  to  the  hearts  of  enemies, 
or  to  pierce  the  quivering  flesh  of  the  innocent. 

The  refined  ingenuity  of  man  has  ever  been 
applied  to  things  that  kill.  The  art  of  annihila- 
tion has  attracted  some  of  the  dominant  intellects 
of  mankind,  and  the  extinction  of  life  has  been 
the  industry  of  millions  since  human  history 
began. 

The  feathered  shaft  of  the  savage,  and  the  steel 

[280] 


THE    RED    ARROW 

shell  of  the  white  man,  go  upon  the  same  errand, 
and  they  both  leave  the  same  dark  stain  upon  the 
green  earth.  The  children  of  men,  in  all  ages, 
have  been  taught  that  war  is  the  only  path  to  glory. 

Under  His  quiet  skies  the  living  things  must 
die,  because  they  live.  The  Great  Riddle  awaits 
solution  beyond  the  confines  of  our  philosophy, 
and  in  the  midst  of  our  speculative  wanderings, 
we  become  dust.  Theology  is  as  helpless  before 
a  burial  mound  in  the  wilderness,  as  beside  the 
gilded  tomb  of  a  prince  of  the  church. 

The  spiritual  needs  of  the  primitive  savage  were 
administered  by  his  tribal  gods,  and  the  spirits 
of  his  mythology.  In  his  child-like  faith  he  be- 
lieved the  favor  of  a  Great  Spirit  to  be  in  the 
sunshine,  and  that  omnipotent  wrath  was  thun- 
dered in  the  storms.  His  good  manitous  presided 
over  his  fortunes  in  life,  and  gently  led  him  into 
fabled  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  grave. 

He  was  a  fatalist,  and  not  being  civilized,  his 
theology  was  imperfect. 

Civilization  approached  him  with  a  Bible  in 
one  hand  and  a  bottle  in  the  other,  and  the  decay 
of  his  race  began.    The  finger  of  fate  had  touched 

[281] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

him,  and  the  last  heart-broken  remnants  of  once 
happy  and  powerful  tribes  were  tied  and  led  away 
by  benign  and  Christian  soldiers.  They  carried 
crushed  spirits  and  shattered  lives  to  an  alien  soil, 
which  an  all-wise  conqueror  had  selected  for  them, 
leaving  their  burned  homes,  and  the  bones  of  those 
they  loved,  in  the  land  of  their  birth. 

The  moralist  finds  abundant  food  for  reflection 
in  the  sufferings  of  the  weak,  at  the  hands  of  the 
strong,  and  the  triumph  of  might  over  helpless- 
ness, but  the  Indian  interfered  with  enlightened 
selfishness  and  he  perished. 

The  record  of  the  expatriation  and  the  practical 
extinction  of  the  Pottawatomies,  who  lived  in  this 
region,  is  written  upon  dark  pages  of  our  history, 
but  perhaps  they  had  no  rights  as  living  creatures 
that  an  enlightened  government  was  bound  to 
respect. 

When  the  fog  rolls  in  from  the  distant  waters, 
and  steals  through  the  pines,  wraith-like  forms 
of  a  forgotten  race  seem  to  haunt  the  scenes  of 
by-gone  years.  We  may  imagine  the  march  of 
phantom  throngs  through  the  trees,  to  meet  silent 
battalions  beyond  the  hills.     The  sands  seem  to 

[282] 


THE    RED    ARROW 

yield  to  the  folds  of  a  gray  mantle  that  is  laid 
upon  them,  and  retreat  into  obscurity. 

When  the  night  shadows  come  into  the  dune 
country,  the  spell  of  mystery  and  poetry  comes 
with  them.  The  sorcery  of  the  dark  places  leads 
us  into  a  land  of  dreams  and  unreality. 

Out  on  the  tremulous  surface  of  the  lake,  we 
may  fancy  the  lifting  of  silvery  paddles  in  the 
path  of  the  moon's  reflections,  and  the  furtive 
movement  across  the  bar  of  light,  of  mystic  shapes 
in  phantom  canoes. 

Mingled  with  the  lispings  of  the  little  waves, 
we  may  hear  ghostly  prows  touch  the  sand,  and 
see  spectral  figures  file  into  the  hills.  The  faint 
echoes  of  strokes  upon  flint  come  out  of  the 
shadows. 

The  spirits  of  an  ancient  race  have  gone  to  their 
quarries,  for  arrowheads  and  spears,  for  the  un- 
seen battles  with  evil  gods. 

Voices  in  the  night  wind  recall  them,  and  they 
go  out  into  the  purple  mists,  that  come  upon  the 
face  of  the  waters  before  the  dawn. 

Sometimes  among  the  silences,  comes  the  beauti- 
ful dream  form  of  Naeta,  the  Spirit  of  the  Dunes, 

[283] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

who  was  once  an  Indian  maiden  with  laughing 
eyes  and  raven  hair.  It  was  she  who  lured  the 
soul  of  Taqua,  a  mighty  warrior,  who  first  saw 
her  in  the  silver  moonlight  among  the  pines,  in 
a  far-off  time,  before  the  first  legends  of  the  people 
were  told. 

Love  stole  into  their  lives  and  brought  with  him 
a  train  of  sorrows,  which,  one  by  one,  were  laid 
upon  aching  hearts,  until  the  burden  became  too 
heavy  to  bear.  A  dark  shadow  fell  upon  the  little 
wigwam,  and  the  world-old  story  of  shattered 
faith,  that  sent  two  souls  adrift,  was  told  by  the 
two  trails  that  led  from  the  ashes  before  the  door. 

The  heart  of  Taqua  became  black,  and  for  many 
days  and  nights  he  sped  over  sandy  hills,  and  along 
rocky  shores,  with  the  deadly  gleam  of  revenge 
in  his  eyes,  and  the  bitterness  of  hate  in  his  breast. 

Once  he  sat  brooding  by  the  shore  of  the  great 
lake,  and  saw  a  fragment  of  red  flint,  which  the 
numberless  waves  had  worn  into  the  rude  re- 
semblance of  an  arrow-head.  He  picked  it  out 
of  the  wet  sand,  and  with  patient  skill,  he  fash- 
ioned it  to  a  cutting  point.     He  fastened  it  into 

[284] 


THE    RED    ARROW 

a  shaft  of  ironwood,  which  he  feathered  with  the 
pinions  of  a  hawk. 

He  then  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  high  promon- 
tory, and  waited  until  he  saw  his  star  come  over 
the  horizon,  in  the  path  of  the  young  moon.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  could  talk  to  Manabush, 
the  hero  god,  who  was  the  intermediary  between 
the  Indian  and  his  manitous. 

When  he  was  certain  of  the  presence  of  Mana- 
bush, he  held  his  red  arrow  before  him — told  the 
story  of  his  wrongs — and  consecrated  the  arrow 
to  the  heart  of  his  enemy.  When  the  dawn  came, 
and  Manabush  was  gone,  he  placed  the  arrow  in 
his  quiver,  and  began  his  march  upon  the  path 
of  vengeance. 

Through  weary  years  he  followed  it,  finding 
upon  it  many  cross  trails,  and  the  footprints  of 
those  who  had  gone  before,  upon  the  same  errand. 
The  path  led  him  into  strange  places,  and  through 
numberless  dark  defiles,  into  which  the  sunlight 
never  came. 

It  led  him  through  lonesome  loveless  years,  that 
marked  his  brow  with  wrinkled  hate,  and  hard- 
ened the  lines  that  are  only  curved  by  smiles. 

[285] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

Time  finally  bent  the  sinewy  form,  the  springing 
strides  became  shorter,  and  their  vigor  became  less. 
The  frosts  and  sorrows  of  many  winters  had  turned 
the  dark  locks  white,  when,  at  the  end  of  one 
summer — just  as  the  first  leaves  began  to  fall — he 
once  more  journeyed  to  the  high  rock  to  invoke 
the  aid  and  counsel  of  the  hero  god. 

His  dimmed  eyes  once  more  sought  the  star,  and 
wrhen  he  saw  its  light,  he  told  Manabush  the  story 
of  his  fruitless  quest.  His  tired  limbs  could  no 
longer  keep  the  trail,  and  his  weary  arms  could  no 
longer  bend  the  bow  to  the  arrow's  length. 

Long  he  talked  and  meditated,  and  a  voice 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  darkness.  It  was  a 
voice  of  sweetness  and  mercy — a  voice  of  love  and 
forgiveness- — that  told  of  the  futility  of  hatred  and 
revenge,  which  would  be  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the 
Great  Beyond,  when  the  earth  should  know  him 
no  more. 

A  new  light  burst  upon  him.  He  became  glori- 
fied with  a  new  thought.  He  resolved  that  he 
would  no  longer  carry  the  red  arrow  in  his  quiver. 
He  would  abandon  the  black  and  sinister  trail 
which  he  had  hoped  to  redden  with  the  blood  of 

[286] 


THE    RED    ARROW 

his  enemy,  and  part  with  this  evil  thing  that  had 
mastered  him. 

When  the  morning  sun  came  over  the  hills,  and 
bathed  them  in  the  radiance  of  a  new  day,  he 
straightened  his  bent  figure,  and  resolutely  placed 
the  red  arrow  in  the  bow.  With  a  new  strength, 
he  drew  the  shaft  to  its  full  length,  and,  with  a 
loud  twang,  the  red  arrow  sang  in  the  morning  air. 

His  poor  old  eyes  could  follow  it  only  a  little 
way,  but  he  saw  it  strike  the  shining  bark  of  a 
little  tree.  With  a  sad  smile — the  first  of  many 
years — he  saw  the  leaves  of  the  little  tree  turn  red. 

He  looked  for  the  arrow  in  vain.  It  had  gone 
on  through  the  forest,  and  at  night  he  found  that 
it  had  struck  many  trees,  for  their  leaves  were  also 
red.  The  next  day  he  traveled  on,  and  the  scarlet 
leaves  were  ever  before  his  eyes. 

At  last,  tired  and  footsore,  he  laid  down  and 
slept.  There  came  to  him  in  his  dreams  the  beauti- 
ful Naeta.  She  told  him  of  a  long  journey  through 
the  years;  how  she  had  wearily  sought  him,  how 
she  had  patiently  followed  the  tangled  threads  of 
fate,  hoping  to  find  the  end,  where  the  sun  might 

[287] 


THE    DUNE    COUNTRY 

shine,  without  bitterness,  without  hatred — with 
love  and  repentance  in  her  heart. 

Her  feet  had  faltered  on  her  weary  way,  and 
many  times  she  had  grasped  the  little  trees  to 
keep  from  falling. 

He  awoke  and  looked  again  into  the  forest.  He 
saw  that  these  little  trees  were  touched  with  gold. 

He  then  closed  his  eyes  in  eternal  sleep,  and  the 
Indian  Summer  had  come  upon  the  land. 

The  red  arrow  and  the  repentant  hand  had 
transfigured  the  hills,  and  the  glory  of  the  Divine 
was  upon  them. 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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